


So Let's All Pretend (That We Are Undead)

by MAVEfm



Series: Le Velo Pour Deux [2]
Category: Fall Out Boy, My Chemical Romance, Panic! at the Disco, The Academy Is...
Genre: 2005, Alternate Universe - A Little Less Sixteen Candles (Music Video), Alternate Universe - Vampire, Blood, Blood Magic, Demons, Gen, Ghosts, Illegal Activities, Magic, Mild Gore, Sarcasm, Takes place in 2005, Urban Fantasy, Vampire Hunters, Vampires, Witches, let's beat up Bob Bryar
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-06
Updated: 2017-05-06
Packaged: 2018-10-28 14:12:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 31,605
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10832916
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MAVEfm/pseuds/MAVEfm
Summary: “Well, wait!” He cleared his throat and straightened his brown vest, “I need to cleanse my apartment, you know, of negative energy, that’s all, and I’m a bit short on ingredients… I know you won’t have anything I need, obviously, but would you know anyone that might?”Dallon raised his eyebrows and the bruise under his eye throbbed, “Like… drugs?”Ryan stared for a moment, “No.”“Then no,” Dallon pushed the door closed, and Ryan let out a heavy sigh that could be heard through the door.





	So Let's All Pretend (That We Are Undead)

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to everyone that read the first in the series! This has to be one the biggest things I've been planning since I started the Radiation Point series, and I'm absolutely in love with how it's turned out.

_Dallon,_

 

 _I’m moving out._ _I know, I’m sorry it’s sudden._

_It’s got nothing to do with you, you’re a great_

_roommate, but I can’t deal with the blood_

_anymore. I’m really sorry I can’t be around to_

_patch you up, god knows you’re already good_

_at it, but it’s starting to get to me. I have dreams_

_where you come home drenched in blood and_

_guts and it’s catching up to me._

_I can’t take it. I don’t even know how you can_

_do it. I’m not going to stop being your friend,_

_but I have to get out of here, I already paid my_

_Half of the rent, sorry again._

_Alex_

 

 

  * ****Handwritten note from Alex Suarez to Dallon Weekes, 22, lying on the kitchen counter of a two bedroom apartment, Las Vegas, Nevada****



 

 

* * *

 

 

Dallon Weekes takes a deep breath.

 

He whispers: “Fuck.”

 

He takes another deep breath and pulls a face that’s in between angry and trying not to cry. The bruise under his eye stings and he reached up to touch it, wincing again as his finger caught on something sticky.

 

He leans against the counter and pressed a wet rag to his face.

 

Alex must have left while he had been out, it wouldn’t have been hard, he had been gone since the day before. He must have called a friend too, to help him move, Alex’s ugly green chair was gone from the living room. His bedroom must be cleared out now too.

 

A hot bubbling feeling filled his chest and turned to brace himself on the counter, crumpling the note between his fingers he smashes his fist on the counter and lets the feeling subside before throwing the note across the room. _“Fuck!”_

 

He stalks down the hallway to Alex’s room even though he knew what to expect. An empty room, probably some papers left behind. But the room was clean. Alex had left no trace, he had even taken the hanging picture from the wall where it once covered a hole that Dallon had punched in once long ago, hiding it from their landlord.

 

He almost wanted to punch in another one.

 

This was the fourth time in two years his roommate had walked out on him, each one a little different than the last.

 

His first had simply said: “I’m moving out, my sister has a place and she doesn’t want to live alone.”

 

He had said: “That’s okay, I’ll find someone else.”

 

His second had said: “I gotta get out of Vegas, dude, you’re not a bad roommate or anything, but I gotta get out of Vegas.”

 

He had shrugged and said: “That’s okay, keep in touch.”

 

His third had barely stayed. He had lasted two weeks, saw Dallon come home the way he usually did and left yelling: “Fuck you and your anger issues Dallon! Fuck you! You’re fucking creepy!” They had passed each other in the hallway, and a quick moment passed when he had wanted to run after them, steal their luggage, and knock them on their ass. They weren’t nice. Not to people like him anyway.

 

But Alex had stayed the longest, he was tolerant, he even helped Dallon with his injuries when he came home. But he had still gone.

 

His uncle had once said: “If you know they tried, and I mean _tried,_ Dallon, you can’t stay mad.”

 

He laid down on the couch, his legs dangling off the side, and turned on the TV.

 

He surfed through an extremely limited batch of channels, including Cartoon Network, Public Access, Hallmark, and then finally the news.

 

National news never made things better, and he hated morning television with the same passion white wine moms loved the Hallmark channel, maybe even more.

 

Some bitch by the name Mark Lund stared at him from behind the screen, his tie crooked and his hair perfectly quaffed. He said, in a nasal voice that made Dallon groan, “No progress has been made in the investigation into the disappearance of a Chicago teen, estimated to have been missing for approximately six days before his mother went to the authorities, who have reported no signs of a kidnapping. They are now investigating the possibilities of a runaway, the teen’s mother has this message for her son:” The scene changed, showing the front of a building, and a woman, her sad, tired voice made Dallon bury his face in the couch.

 

“Um… Patrick is about… five feet two inches tall, and he has red hair… He wears a lot of baseball caps… He told me he was at a friends house, so I didn’t worry, but Patrick… He would have called and… Please, Patrick, if you’re safe, please come home, we can work whatever this is out, I’m so sorry if-” A man in uniform whispered in her ear, “-If you have any information, please come forward-”

 

Dallon changed the channel to Cartoon Network for Codename: Kid’s Next Door.

 

He falls asleep to the Rainbow Monkey Song.

 

He awakens to a knock at his door, it’s late, he doesn’t have a clock, but the sun has already sunk low in the sky, turning the sky purple. Duck Dodgers is quacking from the speakers. Another knock.

 

“Alright, I heard,” Dallon groans, and shifts on the couch, wanting to fall asleep again. Another knock, louder and more forceful. “Fuck off!”

 

Another  _fucking_ knock.

 

Dallon buried his head in the couch, “Can’t I just be sad in peace?” He rolls from the couch onto the floor, resting for a moment on the old carpet before pulling himself to his feet.

 

He opened the door, rubbing his eye and pulling at his hair, expecting his landlord, come to his door to berate him about losing another roommate.

 

Instead, a boy stood at his door. His brown eyes and soft face were framed with waving brown hair, and he looked like he had taken a wrong turn at the sixties and kept going until he knocked at Dallon’s door. He even had a loose headband tied around his curls, patterned with green and yellow flowers for good measure.

 

The boy sucked in a breath and looked Dallon up and down, taking in his full appearance, it took a few seconds, then he said: “Hi.”

 

“Is that all?” Dallon frowned.

 

“No sorry!” The boy readjusted his messenger bag on his shoulder and stuck out his hand, “I’m Ryan, your neighbor across the hall,” He pointed his thumb at the door behind him and Dallon shook his hand.

 

“Dallon,” He said, “I live here,” He copied Ryan and pointed behind him at his now somewhat barren apartment. Ryan smiled.

 

“Yeah, I guessed,” He scratched his neck, “Sorry for bothering you, but I just moved in, I think… two weeks ago? Yeah, maybe you remember? I think we saw each other in the lobby.”

 

“Yeah,” Dallon remembered. He had just won $300 that day, and was coming home to share it with Alex. Like an adult, Alex had bought a vacuum cleaner, it was probably in the closet with the rest of the stuff Dallon could proudly slap a ‘Never Used’ sticker on someday. He didn’t remember Ryan exactly but he did remember the ugliest round wicker chair he had ever seen in his life, sitting in the lobby as if it owned the place, and a woman in her mid to late forties leaning on the front desk and jabbering into a Blackberry. Her heeled shoes had made a grating tapping noise that made Dallon twitch as he waited for the elevator.

 

“Did you have that ugly chair?” He asked Ryan, “The one with the purple cushion?”

 

Ryan twitched, “That’s my _grandmother’s,_ ” He paused, took a breath, and continued, “I was wondering… If you might have any Bay leaves?”

 

Dallon blinked, looked back into his apartment, then looked back at Ryan, “Do I… Do I _look_ like a person who has any idea what _bay leaves_ are?”

 

Ryan looked him up and down again, which took a moment because of their extreme difference in height, then said, with a blank face: “No.”

 

“Glad we could have this talk,” Dallon smiled with a closed mouth and began to shut the door before Ryan stopped him.

 

“Well, wait!” He cleared his throat and straightened his brown vest, “I need to cleanse my apartment, you know, of negative energy, that’s all, and I’m a bit short on ingredients… I know you won’t have anything I need, _obviously,_ but would you know anyone that might?”

 

Dallon raised his eyebrows and the bruise under his eye throbbed, “Like… drugs?”

 

Ryan stared for a moment, “No.”

 

“Then no,” Dallon pushed the door closed, and Ryan let out a heavy sigh that could be heard through the door.

 

* * *

 

 

_I hope you have a wonderful birthday full of surprises!_

_Lots of sunshine and cake! Don’t worry about what your mom_

_says, I raised her you know! She can be ornery, but she loves_

_you more than anything. I wrote a few sigils at the bottom you_

_can write for good vibes! And check the faerie circle! They_

_always leave gifts for the people they like, and they like you a_

_lot! I’m sorry I can’t be there, but my sister and I are looking into_

_some spooky stuff here in New Orleans, could be ghosts! Next_

_time I’ll bring you along!_

_-Gams_

 

_P.S. I hope you like the crystals!_

 

 

  * ****Two-year-old birthday card written by Ryan Ross’ grandmother, taped to a box of quartz crystals, Las Vegas, Nevada****



 

 

* * *

 

 

He meets Ryan again in the elevator.

 

The doors had been just about to close, sending out a warning with a small _ding!_ and the sound of mechanical sliding. Dallon clutched two fabric shopping bags in his fist, the handles wrapped around his knuckles as he tapped his foot, waiting for the elevator to descend.

 

Then a thin hand had thrust itself between the doors, pushing its way in and surprising Dallon so much he backed into the wall and nearly knocked the air out of his lungs.

 

Ryan stood in the threshold, gasped for air, then entered the elevator. As usual, he wore a shirt that looked like a shower curtain, and a vest that looked like something his grandfather might have worn. His hair was free of any headbands, but the earring that hung from his left ear was just as terrible of a fashion choice.

 

They gave each other the stinkeye.

 

“Selling drugs?” Ryan pointed at the bags, sarcasm edged his words.

 

“Protesting Vietnam?” Dallon snapped back, gesturing at his clothes.

 

Ryan crossed his arms and stared at the doors, then his cheeks went red and he pressed the button for Lobby. Dallon tried to shove his embarrassment back down his throat.

 

The doors opened to the lobby and Dallon left the elevator as fast as he could, taking quick, wide steps towards the front door and exiting the building to the dry air of Las Vegas. Ryan had hurried after him but lost pace due to his height. For once, Dallon was happy to be taller than someone.

 

His route to the grocery store thankfully wasn’t Ryan’s, and he could walk in peace.

 

“Ay! Dallon!” A shout from across the street, Nicholas, and his friend Kevin, “That was a good show last week!”

 

Nicholas and Kevin laughed and Dallon waved, slightly uncomfortable. They cheered and began to follow his pace. Kevin began where Nicholas left off, “Oh yeah Dal! It was amazing!” He began to play fight with Nicholas, who dodged and blocked his fake punches. “You really left the other guy…” He wound up and sent punch flying over Nicholas’ head, “In stitches!” He laughed and Nicholas mimed getting knocked out by stumbling backward.

 

Other pedestrians pushed him out of the way in annoyance.

 

They came to a crosswalk and hurried across to meet him, “So,” Nicholas began and Dallon turned the corner away from them. They followed anyway.

 

“So what is the  _deal?_ ” Nicholas started again, “What is the champion doing today?”

 

“Shopping.” Dallon hurried, but they kept pace with him.

 

“Shopping?!” Kevin scoffed, “But you have $2,000! You should be treating yourself!”

 

“I am,” Dallon stopped at a crosswalk, “To food.”

“Why have food when you can have…” Nicholas swept his hand in the direction a club with neon signs on the front, “ _Real meat?”_

 

Dallon frowned, “You’re disgusting, and I know what you want, you want me to pay for you.”

 

“What?” Kevin was taken aback, dramatically touching his hand to his chest, “Never!” They made their way across the street and entered Walmart.

 

“Uh hey,” Nicholas pushed Kevin back a bit, “Did you hear the news?”

 

“About that missing kid in Chicago?” Dallon examined the nutrition label on the back of some cereal.

 

“What?” Nicholas grabbed a box of Cocoa Puffs and ripped it open, Kevin stole it out of his hands and began to eat it, “No, I mean the _news.”_

 

“What, did Sisky go down the first round or something?”

 

Kevin snorted, “Yeah right! The _news_ is that Ronnie’s back in town.”

 

Dallon paused, “Ronnie?” He pushed the cereal into his bag, “I thought he said he was never coming back.”

 

“That’s what I said!” Kevin said through a mouthful of chocolate cereal, then he swallowed and wiped his mouth, and shoved the box to the back of the shelf, “But apparently he heard about the new ‘talents’ that came around after he left.”

 

“Yeah, scoping out the new kids.” Nicholas nodded.

 

Dallon hadn’t been around long enough to really meet Ronnie, and he had left when Dallon had been much younger, and it had been a dramatic send-off.

 

“It doesn’t really matter,” Dallon pushed a few items in his bag and traveled to the next aisle, “It’s not like the president is coming or something.” Not that Dallon wanted to see George Bush, he just wasn’t a key figure in his life right now.

 

“Doesn’t matter?!” Kevin followed him, Nicholas ripped open a case of soda and grabbed one out, taking a sip and putting it back and spitting: _“Room temperature,”_ In disgust.

 

“How does it not matter?! He said he’s coming back to see the new kids, _you’re_ a new kid!” Kevin’s voice went high and Dallon shrugged.

 

“Will it come in between me and my money?”

 

“Well-” Kevin stopped, “Well it shouldn’t I mean-”

 

“That’s all I need to know,” Dallon made his way to the cashier, “As long as Mick can get me my money I have nothing to worry about.”

 

“Come on Dallon-” Kevin was stopped by a loss prevention officer, and Nicholas ran into his back, “Hey… fella, buddy, you know you look great in that uniform-”

 

“Were you planning on paying for the stuff you opened?” The officer interrupted.

 

“Uh, what stuff?” Nicholas scratched his scalp in confusion, “We were just shopping with our friend here, Dallon! Dallon! Come on, vouch for us!” The officer turned to give him a questioning look.

 

Dallon shrugged, “Uh, sorry, I’ve never seen those two in my life.”

 

Kevin and Nicholas scoffed and whined, yelling at Dallon and the guard frowned, “They seem to know your name.”

 

Dallon thought for a minute, then snapped his fingers, “I do know them!” He pointed at Kevin, “That one mugged me last week!”

 

 _“What?”_ Kevin stepped forward and the guard stopped him. Dallon continued:

 

“Yeah! That’s how he knows me! He stole my wallet! I had to turn my credit card off!”

 

Kevin and Nicholas continued to yell at him as he made his way to the cashier, and Dallon smirked, placing his groceries on the belt, the cashier, and girl with thick eyeliner gave him a vacant look. “You’ll be paying in cash?”

 

“I had to turn my card off, remember?”

 

The cashier rolled her eyes and rang him up.

 

The walk back to his apartment thankfully held no surprises, which made Dallon both relieved and nervous. His luck was too bad to ever give him a free pass.

 

So of course, it saved the worst for dead last.

 

He took the stairs to his apartment for exercise and tripped up the stairs, scratching his chin and dropped his keys halfway down, basically giving him two trips for the price of one. Then, as he finally made it to his room, Ryan opened the door of his own, but not before struggling with the locks on the inside and trying to push it out instead of pulling. “Wait!” He gasped, holding his door halfway open, in his other arm, Dallon could see a bundle of white, pink, and purple flowers, wrapped in plastic and ribbon.

 

“What do you want now?” Dallon groaned.

 

“There’s-” Ryan pointed at Dallon’s door and began to whisper, _“There’s someone in your apartment.”_

 

“What?” Dallon almost dropped his groceries, “Who?”

 

 _“I don’t know!”_ Ryan whispered fiercely, _“I saw him when I came back from the chapel, I was getting holy water-”_

 

 _“Ryan!”_ Dallon finally whispered back, _“I don’t care about your weird fetishes! Who is in my apartment?!”_

 

 _“It’s not a fetish!”_ Ryan stomped his foot, _“And I don’t know who he is! He’s old! With long hair! That’s all I saw! I hope he robs you!”_ Ryan slams his door shut and Dallon sighs, turning towards his door and pulling out his keys.

 

Opening the door with a flourish, he dragged his grocery bags inside and slams them on the kitchen counter. “I told you I don’t want you coming to my apartment again.”

 

Mick Jagger, a thin man of average height, sat on Dallon’s couch, sipping a beer he had probably found at the back of Dallon’s refrigerator. His back was to Dallon when he said: “Then change the locks next time you banish me,” He stood and crumpled the beer in his fists, turning to smile at him, “Aren’t we friends?”

 

“More like acquaintances,” Dallon began to unpack his groceries, “The kind I don’t want people seeing, like an ugly rash.”

 

Mick spread his arms, “Dally! You could at least call me once in a while! That way I don’t have to break in to give you news!”

 

“I know the news already, Ronnie’s coming back.”

 

Mick waved his hand non-committedly, “That’s barely news anymore, I’ve known for weeks that asshole was making a comeback, but I mean the other news! I got another fight! And a good one! Just for you!”

 

“Just for me?” Dallon looked at him, blank, “I don’t like going twice a week Mick.”

 

“Now hear me, Dally,” Mick came to sit on the back of the couch, “This one is special! Four!”

 

“Four bucks?” Dallon pursed his lips, “You think I’m an idiot?”

“No!” Mick sighed, “Four Gs! Four thousand!”

 

Dallon straightened, “Four thousand,” He breathed, “Mick if you’re serious... you’re welcome back to my apartment anytime…”

 

“I’m serious Dally! Robertson has the whole thing planned out, it’s against Bob-”

 

“Bryar?” Dallon leaned forward, and Mick smiled.

 

“I know you wanted a crack at him again!” Mick started forward and grabbed him by the shoulders, “Now you can for four thousand dollars!” Dallon was about to agree, he could feel a bubble pop in his stomach, the kind that left him hot and curling his fists.

 

But he stopped.

 

“There’s a catch isn’t there?”

 

Mick’s smile faded and he hesitated, Dallon pushed him back, “Isn’t there?!”

 

Mick dusted off his jacket, “You have to throw it, doesn’t matter when, but you have to throw it.”

 

The heat leaped to his throat and he grabbed a jar of bread and butter pickles from his bag and threw it at Mick, seeing red. Mick ducked and the jar smashed on the opposite wall. “Dally! What did I tell you about that-”

 

Dallon grabbed him from the ground around his collar and pulled him up so fast Mick’s feet left the ground, he glared, his eye twitching.

 

“-temper.” Mick finished, and Dallon pushed him against the couch, “Now let me down…” Dallon dropped him and he stumbled, “It’s just one fight, Dally-”

 

“We had an agreement,” Dallon curled his fists, trying not punch anything that hurt would hurt his hand. “I don’t throw, I don’t cheat for a better deal, I told you-”

 

“Yeah, yeah, I know Dally, you’re a white knight, but come on!” Mick bargained, “Four thousand dollars! Dallon!”

 

“Just get Sisky to do it.”

 

“Bob asked for you, Dally, specifically,” Mick pointed at him, “You could even pay off that girl you’re always looking at to finally go down on you-”

 

Dallon finally bit it and punched Mick so hard he put a dent in his front door, cracking the thin wood and making the hinges loose. Mick held his eye and glared, “I’m not angry Dallon, the fight’s in four days okay? I understand I crossed a line-”

 

“Just get out!” Dallon yelled and Mick quickly made for the handle, scrambling out the door almost on all fours, running down the hallway tripping over bumps in the rug and stumbling down the stairs.

 

Ryan’s door clicked open, “Should I call the cops?” He asked through a narrow crack in between the door and the frame. Dallon huffed and slammed his door behind him. It rattled on its hinges.

 

The next morning Ryan knocked on his door.

 

Dallon looked through the peephole and had to lean against the door for a second, sighing heavily and wondering if he could strangle himself on the faucet hose in the kitchen.

 

Instead, he opened the door.

 

Ryan smiled, holding a small bouquet of flowers with a ribbon wrapped around in a messy bow. “Good morning,” He nodded, “I brought a peace offering.” He thrust the flowers in his direction, and the white, purple, and pink bundle rustle, dropping a few petals onto the floor. “So there’s some heather, some carnations, and chrysanthemums, some lavender, and there’s some dogwood too!” He pointed at the corresponding flower with each name, “I was maybe gonna put in some begonia’s, but I was afraid I would mess it up.”

 

Dallon took the bouquet, loosely holding it in his fingers and staring at the bright colors, “Mess what up?” Ryan paused, shuffling his feet.

 

“Don’t be weird-” He began and Dallon raised his eyebrows, “Shut up! It’s a… protection ward,  through floral arrangements, I already said the spell and-”

 

“What.” Dallon stared at him.

 

“And the flowers are store-bought, I know they should be wild cut but some of these flowers don’t really grow in Nevada-”

 

“Stop, just stop,” Dallon frowned, “What the fuck are you talking about? Spells? These are fucking… flowers, and last time I checked this isn’t-”

 

Ryan closed his eyes, “Don’t say Hogwarts.” Dallon stopped, then continued.

 

“This isn’t Hogwarts.”

 

“Oh, fuck you,” Ryan rubbed his eyes, “This is exactly why I moved out.”

 

“Are supposed to be a wizard-”

 

“Witch! A Spring Witch!” Ryan blurted, “The flowers are protection spell, to protect property! I figured since you had the break-in last night you would want something to guard your home!” He backed into his apartment, “I don’t know why I even tried!” He slammed the door behind him and a pair of scissors dropped from the top of the frame to floor, probably another spell or something.

 

“Well, maybe you should have bought me a new lock or something!” Dallon yelled at Ryan’s door, “Would’ve been a lot more useful!”

 

A neighbor a few doors down yelled: _“Shut up!”_

 

Dallon slammed his door shut.

 

He set the flowers in the tallest glass he could find in his kitchen and set them on the counter.

 

Then he moved them to his bathroom, next to the soap.

 

Then to his living room next to his TV.

 

Then finally back to his kitchen.

 

Whatever.

 

His phone rang at noon and his body sunk farther down into the couch. The ringing cut out at the third chime and he sighed, then it started again.

 

The machine took it.

 

 _“I’m sorry if I got the wrong number.”_ Breezy Douglas’s voice flooded his apartment and Dallon shot from his spot on the couch, tripping towards the phone. _“I’ll call later.”_ She hung up he got to the phone, slapping his hands down on the counter in frustration, then picking up the receiver.

 

He pressed the buttons to call the last number.

 

The few times the other line rang was torture, and Dallon was unable to breathe for a horrifying few seconds.

 

Someone picked up.

 

 _"Alessia here,”_ Her high, cheery voice betrayed a slight annoyance, _“And you have called the number for the best fifteen minutes of your life-”_

 

“Alessia!” Dallon interrupted her, “Did someone make a call from this number?”

 

_“Now that isn’t the script hon-”_

 

“It’s Dallon.”

 

Alessia paused, _“Well hi Dallon! You aren’t really the person to call a sex line aren’t you?”_

 

“I just got a call from this number,” Dallon ignored her other question, “Was someone using your line before you?”

 

 _“I’ve been here all day Dal,”_ He could hear her confused pout through the phone, _“And the number you dialed is a sex-line, it’s pretty random who you get, that’s why you got me and not the actual person who called you, it’s a whole algorithm, math, and stuff.”_ He could tell she was shrugging by the sound of her voice. _“Actually, it’s really cool, I can tell you about it if you want? It’s actually not random-”_

 

"Alessia,” Dallon rubbed his face, “I’m sure it’s super cool, but, I didn’t even pass seventh-grade math without cheating.”

 

 _“Oh!”_ Claire giggled, “ _That’s totally okay! That was me with English class, I think I’d rather throw myself down a flight of stairs than read Grapes of Wrath again… Listen I’m gonna have to hang up, but… if you know who called you-”_

 

“Breezy!” He said, “It was Breezy!” Alessia swooned.

 

_“Aw, of course it was! You two are so sweet! Like two peas in a pod, oh, I’m gonna cry!”_

 

“Les, is there any way you can get her back?”

 

 _“Oh, yeah, I know where she is, I’ll be right back-”_ He could hear her put the receiver down on the desk in front of her, and her telling her coworkers something in a hushed tone, there was a small collection of swoons and hushed whispers, then the tapping of comfortable shoes on tile.

 

_“Hi, Dallon!”_

 

_“Hi, honey!”_

 

_“How are you, sweetie?”_

 

_“Are you still fighting? Tell Sisky he owes me money!”_

 

“Oh, hi guys,” Blood rushed to his cheeks, “Uh, shouldn’t you be working?”

 

 _“Nah, it’s perv hour, so just older guys are calling,”_ A few voices behind the main one laughed in agreement, _“So we just redirect them to the payment process, Lord knows that takes long! Oh, this is Elisa by the way.”_

 

“Hi, Elisa,” Dallon tugged at his hair, “So-”

 

He was interrupted by Alessia, loudly making an appearance in the background. _“Honestly! Come on, get out of the way, go back to your desks or something!”_ A few girls greeted her then said goodbye to Dallon, he anxiously tapped his fingers on the counter, staring at the flowers.

 

 _“Here she is Dal,”_ Alessia passed the receiver.

 

 _“Um… Hi,”_ Breezy Douglas’ voice put him at a standstill.

 

“Hi.” He answered back. “Hi, Breezy.”

 

 _“Hi Dallon,”_ She repeated, _“So… What are you wearing, Dallon Weekes?”_

 

He looked down at his Mickey Mouse pajama bottoms and stained Six Flags t-shirt, “I, uh… I called you back.”

 

 _“Yeah,”_ She paused, _You did.”_

 

“So do you…” He leaned against the counter, “What did you… What did you want to say?”

 

 _“I… Something really shitty happened,”_ She whispered near the end of her sentence and Dallon had to strain to hear it, _“Can you… Can you come to the club tonight? I need someone to talk to.”_

 

Dallon straightened, “Yeah, of course, anything, I’ll be there.”

 

 _“Good,”_ He could tell she was smiling, _“Just at the usual time, nine, maybe?”_

 

“Definitely,” Dallon nodded, then stopped when he realized she wouldn’t be able to see it, “Nine, I won’t be late.”

 

_“I look forward to it.”_

 

Before he could say anything else, she hung up.

 

* * *

 

 

~~_Dear Breezy,_ ~~

 

~~_Breezy-_ ~~

 

~~_I really like_ ~~

 

~~_You are one of the most_ ~~

 

~~_If I can say one thing_ ~~

 

~~_I love_ ~~

 

~~_I’m not good at_ ~~

 

 

  * ****Crumpled up notes written by Dallon Weekes, 23, in the trash, Las Vegas, Nevada****



 

 

* * *

 

 

He took two showers before going out, the first because he needed one, the second because he felt disgusting. Like bugs had begun to crawl on his skin and created nests in his hair.

 

The glass of flowers had tipped to the ground, shattering, they had apparently been to close to the edge of the counter. He thought of it like Ryan was spiting him, cursing him with whatever witchy bullshit he was pulling out of his ass, to make flowers hate him or something.

 

He tripped twice on the same spot on the carpet as he cleaned it up,  and by the time he had cleaned all the glass up, he was fuming at himself.

 

Finally, as night fell, he straightened his slim tie over a dress shirt (the cuffs were a bit stained, but he didn’t know how to remove blood), and threw on a leather jacket and skinny jeans. Ryan met him in the hallway on a stepladder, replacing the scissors over the door frame. “Where are you going?” He spat, balancing precariously on the last step.

 

“None of your damn business,” Dallon sneered back, making his way to the elevator.

 

A sign on it read: OUT OF ORDER

 

He took the stairs, grumbling all the way down.

 

He walked to the club, breathing the gasoline-scented air of the night and watching as all the neon signs flickered on in the distance, advertising money and fame and women in tight dresses.

 

This part of town was less filled with casinos than apartment buildings and corner stores. The few clubs and bars offered were more for locals than anyone, filled with familiar faces and homegrown liqueur.

 

He didn’t really know any of those ‘familiar faces’.

 

The club, the same one Nicholas had pointed to earlier, was called ‘Dancing Queens’, which made up for its awful name in service. The bar was good and the women working there knew what they were doing, and the boss wasn’t the worst person alive, thankfully. It was clean and looked after.

 

From what he had heard, the girls liked working there.

 

When he entered, pink and blue lights smacked him in the face and the smell of cigarettes permeated the air. The filter must have broken again.

 

The bar was empty since you could take your drink to the slightly more comfortable seats closer to the stage. The bartender, a heavily tattooed man in his forties nodded to him, and he returned it with a two-finger wave.

 

He made his way to the lounge.

 

The music was louder here, pounding his ears with the Beyonce that played over the yelling of customers who had managed to convince their wives they were just going to a bar for the night.

Girls danced on stage and he tried not to stare, keeping his eyes on his sneakers as he sat down in one of the red leather chairs spread throughout.

 

He checked his watch, 8:48, close enough.

 

He picked at his fingernails and pulled at the bloody cuffs of his shirt, bouncing his knees and growing more and more nervous by the minute. Maybe he had come too early, maybe she had seen him and got weirded out by how early he was.

 

Fuck, just fuck, he should leave, this wasn’t going to go well for him, he could just apologize-

 

A new song came on as he prepared to stand, something smoother that made the other men in the crowd hoot and clap. A few girls came out on stage and Dallon gave them a quick glance, his hands gripping the armrests.

 

Breezy, on stage.

 

Dancing.

 

A hot feeling radiated through Dallon’s entire body as he slowly sunk back into his seat, and the girls made their way into the crowd, tracing their fingers over a few men's faces and up their arms, pulling money from their open hands.

 

Dallon hid his face in his hands.

 

An arm wrapped around his shoulders and traced across his back.

 

Breezy.

 

She bent over him and pushed him back into the chair, dancing along to the music and a few guys cheered, whistling and congratulating him. Breezy smiled back at them and bent to get closer to his face, finally whispering in his ear: “Meet me in room twelve?”

 

He looked up at her, his eyes wide, and nodded, she smiled and said: “Give me a minute, okay?”

 

Before he could respond she was gone, continuing the dance with her coworkers.

 

He stared for a second before pushing out of his seat, fast-walking to the other side of the room to a pair of doors that would take him to a hallway that was lined with small, curtained rooms for customers to pay extra for private dances.

 

Room twelve was one of the last few rooms, which he was thankful for, the other rooms closer to the double doors were probably filled with unidentified stains of please-don’t-ask origin.

 

The walls in the rooms were mirrored, so customers could see every angle of the dancers in front of them, but right now the only thing Dallon could see was his own 150 bad angles.

 

His eye was still swollen, and his lips still bloody, and bruises peppered his everywhere like a badly seasoned fish. He had also forgotten about the two Hello Kitty band-aids on his forehead, and his knuckles were purple and wrapped clumsily with medical tape.

 

Shit.

 

He had been just about to rip one of the Hello Kitty band-aids from his face when Breezy burst into the room, closing the curtains behind her before sitting down on the velvet couch with a huff, rubbing her eyes before wrapping her arms around herself, shivering slightly.

 

“Oh, uh, hi…” Dallon paused before taking off his jacket and handing it to her, she nodded and wrapped it around her shoulders.

 

“Thanks,” She sniffed and looked up at him, “Thanks for coming.”

 

“Yeah, of course.” Dallon shifted in his seat, pressing his thumbs into his palms.

 

“I just… I just needed someone outside of this place to talk to,” She squeezed her hands between her thighs, “Did you enjoy the show?” She tried smiling, giving him a breathy laugh that cut off quickly.

 

“I… I didn’t really watch…” He looked down at his bruised hands, “You were great though!” He added quickly and she laughed again.

 

“Thanks.” She avoided his gaze.

 

“So… What is this about?” He asked tentatively, “Not that I don’t like coming to see you! But…”

 

“No, it’s fine! It’s just…” She hesitated, “Do you know my Aunt Martha?”

 

“Yeah.” Dallon nodded.

 

“Well, she’s kind of a daredevil,” She smiles, “We went… rock climbing, a few weeks ago and… She fell a little bit, not a long way! But… she got cut on the rock and we had to wrap it… She thought it would be fine, but it was healing really slowly so… So I took her to the hospital…” She takes a shaky breath and Dallon scooted closer to her.

 

“What… What happened?”

 

“She got her blood tested,” Breezy shifted to face him, “I didn’t know why but the doctor suggested it and… We found out she has Leukemia.”

 

“Oh…” He looked down at her hands, covered with thrift store rings and her nails painted red, “I’m…” He reaches out and wraps his fingers around her own, “Breezy I’m so sorry.”

 

She looks down at his hand and squeezes, a tear trailing its way down her cheek, “Look at me,” She pulls one hand back to wipe it away, “I was fine earlier… Don’t know why I’m falling apart now.”

 

“It’s fine,” Dallon shakes his head, “I mean, you have been holding it back.”

 

She smiles, “You’re so sweet…” She pulled away, “I’m just…  They don’t know if it’s aggressive or not, so she’s being monitored… I think she’s taking it better than I am.” She laughs, “I don’t know how big the bill is gonna be though, she won’t tell me but…”

 

“You don’t know if you’ll be able to pay for it, don’t you?” Dallon gave her a dejected look.

 

“No…” She nearly whispered, “I could take extra shifts… Take a second job, but… I don’t know, I’m not even stable with my own bills.”

 

Dallon nodded, “I… I can help.”

 

“You are,” She grabbed his hand, “I just needed someone to tell my sob story to.”

 

They hugged, then Claire interrupted them, “Time for the next dance.” She sounded guilty, not wanting to interrupt them.

 

“Are you gonna stay?” Breezy asked.

 

“Um… No, no I can’t, I gotta…” He shoves his hands in his pockets, sniffing, “I gotta call my mom…”

 

“You gotta call your mom?” She smiles, thankfully unbothered.

 

“Yeah, I think…” He scratched his head, “I think it’s her birthday?”

 

“Okay,” She smiled and shrugged, “Just… thanks again.”

 

“Anytime,” He shrugs back.

 

He makes his way home in the dark, his hands tucked in his pockets and his head back, looking up at the streetlights.

 

He stumbled into his apartment around midnight after grabbing a quick beer at a cheap pub a couple blocks away. Then huffed, collapsing onto his couch and flipping on the TV.

 

Three things were on: Law and Order, Law and Order SVU, and the fucking news, which he flipped through with slightly blurred vision.

 

_“No leads have been found in the investigation of missing Chicago teen, Patrick St-”_

 

_“I’m trying to decide what to arrest you for! Obstruction of justice, harboring a fugitive, or just being-”_

 

_“I’m not the one who stabbed the captain with a pickle!”_

 

He finally turned it off and stared at the phone on the counter.

 

It was his mom’s birthday.

 

He wasn’t going to call her.

 

Instead, he trundled towards the phone with someone else in mind.

 

“Hey, Mick?”

 

“Yeah, it’s me, I’ll do the fight.”

 

* * *

 

 

_“You came to Vegas to fight right?”_

 

_“Um, yeah?”_

 

 _“But here’s the thing Dally, when you fight, you have to_ fight. _”_

 

_“Um, yeah, I kind of guessed that.”_

 

 _“But when you_ fight _, you get hit, and when you get hit, you get paid, you get paid, you get money, and when you get money, you get bitches, do you want bitches, Dallon Weekes?”_

 

_“Um yeah, I guess so.”_

 

 

  * ****Old phone conversation between Mick Jagger and Dallon Weekes, Las Vegas, Nevada.****



 

 

* * *

 

 

Mick picked him up outside of his apartment building in his fancy black car the morning of the fight.

 

“I’m glad you changed your mind Dally,” He smiled, “We can’t be white knight’s forever, and you need the money!”

 

“Yeah, well, thanks for not being mad.” Dallon gestured at the bruise on Mick’s face.

 

“I know you’ve got a temper Dally, I just want to take care of you.”

 

Dallon slumped lower in his seat, grumbling when his knees hit the dashboard. “So, when’s the fight?”

 

“Tonight, around suppertime, that’s seven ‘o'clock,” Mick thought for a moment, “It’s kinda depending on when Bobby wants to get off his ass.”

 

“Then it won’t take long,” Dallon leans his head on his fist, “He always wants to beat me up.”

 

Mick laughed, “Don’t think of it like that, Dally! It’s just a friendly match between friends, alright?”

 

“If you call a fixed fight between mortal enemies a friendly fight, then yeah, real friendly.”

 

They stopped at Subway for breakfast, then headed to a gym in the rougher part of town. It was owned by Mick and had no name, boarded up in front and covered in graffiti since the nineties. You could only enter from the back and had to know a key code to open the door. Mick was the only one that knew the code, which changed every few days.

 

The first time Dallon had seen it he had scoffed, Mick was too paranoid, the only reason that Mick had given him for the amount of security was that he was afraid. Of cops, burglars, and his enemies. Whoever they were.

 

Mick beeped in the code and they entered.

 

There were only four rooms in the gym, two of them were bathrooms, and the other two consisted of Mick’s office, and the main room filled with punching bags and other workout equipment.

 

“Keith’s in the office,” Mick said, leading him to the door labeled: BIG BOSS.

 

“Already?” Dallon asked, bewildered.

 

“He’s a nervous guy, comes early to everything.”

 

Keith Richards stood the moment the door opened, shivering slightly and clutching a thick brown binder filled with papers and folders. “Hi,” He shook Mick’s hand, “Hi, how… How are you?” He shook Dallon’s hand.

 

“I’m good, Mr. Richards,” Dallon responded, “How are you?”

 

“I don’t have time,” Keith shook his head, “I have to head over to Robertson’s after this.”

 

“Then by all means,” Mick took a seat behind his desk and gestured for Dallon and Keith to take the chairs opposite, “Let’s get this over with.” They sat and Keith opened the binder, setting it on the desk for Dallon to examine.

 

“Now, this is a classic, friendly fight,” Keith pointed at the paper he had opened to, “It’s fixed, but there are still rules to follow, otherwise it looks bad.”

 

“How many people know it’s fixed?” Dallon wrung his hands.

 

“Only a few other people,” Mick answered, “It doesn’t matter.”

 

“Shut up, Mick,” Keith silenced him with a wave of his hand, “Including you and-” He pointed at Mick, “Your sponsor, the rest of your party and a few Italians know, as well as Mr. Bryar, and Robertson and a few of his party.”

 

“Okay…” Dallon nodded.

 

“The rules of the fix are like this:” Keith flipped to another page in his binder where he had written down his notes with a dull pencil, “You go down, preferably after an exciting fight, so not too early, or the Italians will get antsy, and not too late either, you both have to be capable of defense, or the Italians will get antsy, also, you can’t get back up too fast or-”

 

“The Italians will get antsy,” Dallon finished for him.

 

“The Italians are on your side Dallon,” Mick assured, “They like you, they like your edge and your height, so don’t worry, they’re forgiving if you make a mistake.”

 

“So, you go down, you get a split of four thousand, now there’s another part,” Keith took out a pen and Mick frowned.

 

“Woah, woah, another part?” He leaned forward, “There is no _other_ part.”

 

“There is now,” Keith clicked the pen and began to write, “The Italians are a big fan of your white knight act, they said it was a damn shame you caved… but they’re offering you another deal, one Bryar won’t know about.”

 

Dallon hesitated, “What is it?”

 

“You throw this fight how they want, and they’ll give you another fight in the next couple of weeks, don’t know when, but if you win, another four thousand, and they never fix your fights again.”

 

“That’s…” Mick paused, “Generous.”

 

“They said you can think about it,” said Keith. “But not right now,” He flipped back the pages in the brown binder, “The rules of the fight between you and Bryar, and I mean the real ones this time, are as follows, No weapons inside the box, this is strictly a fist fight, this means no knives, guns, knuckles, keys, nails, hammers, and anything else that gives you or your opponent an unfair advantage. Using your environment ties in with this, if this rule is broken, the fight ends with no winner. Breaking of bones, besides the nose, fingers, and the occasional collarbone, is not allowed, this means arms, legs, neck, and ribs, if this rule is broken the fight ends with no winner-”

 

He knew the rules already, having heard them over and over for years he practically had them memorized. He dreamed about these rules. Had drug-induced hallucinations about these rules. He sang them in a drunken bar song, he had even repeated them in his sleep when he had been younger.

 

He’d probably be repeating them to his therapist one of these days.

 

“Do you accept these rules as I have said them and how they are written?” Keith looked up at Dallon.

 

“I do.”

 

Keith slapped the brown binder shut and wished them a good day, leaving to meet with Bob Bryar and Mr. Robertson.

 

“You’re a lucky duck, Dally,” Mick smiled, standing to follow him out to the gym, “Now get dressed, no pockets, at all, I have an image to keep up.” Dallon rolled his eyes and headed to the bathroom.

 

The rules stated no pockets, or they would be searched, and Mick had told him from day one he wanted to be known as the man with nothing to hide.

 

“What better way to keep your secrets?” He had gloated, Dallon had just gone along with it, too inexperienced at the time to argue.

 

He wrapped his fists in gauze and changed into some thinner exercise clothes. He would have to take the shirt off for the fight, and he had no doubt that Bob would make it a no shoe fight.

 

Bob had made it clear he would always try to make Dallon’s life harder in whatever way he could, the only thing he hadn’t done was challenge Dallon outside the box. One on one, no rules, no takebacks, no punishments, and no money.

 

Dallon would probably just skip town before that fight though.

 

Bob had just been dragging their ‘feud’ out for way too long, now he’s finally figured out a way to make it public again. Dallon was sick of it. It was one-sided, and Dallon was too tired to hate him anymore.

 

The fight that had started it seemed almost eons ago too.

 

Bob had won that fight first, Dallon, younger and just as much of an idiot as he was now, had found out a day later his collarbone was fractured. Stupidly, he had gone to Mick.

 

Mick cleaned Bob out of the win as fast as he could, banning Bob from any fights for the next year for rule breaking. His sponsor, Robertson, was convinced Dallon had faked, and convinced Bob too, which Mick had argued against by making the point of: “Just look at him!” He had motioned to Dallon in astonishment, “Look at his face! Still fresh and unmarred!” Mick was overly-dramatic and had practically draped himself over the table towards Robertson, “And definitely not smart, or mean-spirited to fake a fractured clavicle! He’s barely out of high school yet!”

 

When Dallon had healed, and Bob’s ban was lifted, they were put back in the box together. A money grab by the Italians and Mick no doubt, but Dallon had won, fair and square, and not free of his own rage. Bob had taunted him, and Dallon had almost ripped his ear off, which had the no piercings rule reinstated.

 

Bob had hated him ever since. Dallon had simply settled for a dull annoyance.

 

It was lunch when Dallon rewrapped his fists, slightly sore from a bit of morning training that had ended quickly. He didn’t want to be exhausted when the fight started. Mick tossed him a box of McNuggets and a single packet of watery ketchup and told him to hurry, they were heading down early.

 

Dallon scoffed.

 

_A single packet of ketchup?_

 

Who did Mick think he was? A fucking...person who rations food? Even if it was a six-piece box, Mick had to be smarter than _that._

 

Dallon ate his McNuggets anyway, not bothering to clean up the crumbs out of spite.

 

Once again, another car ride, this time to the other side of town, past casinos and resorts and tourists visiting that walked too slow for Dallon’s taste. It even annoyed him when he was riding in a car.

 

Their stop was a slightly run down bar at the end of an alleyway, the only signal it gave of its presence was an unlit neon sign that would light up green once night fell, advertising: _Vices Bar and Grille_.

 

He wasn’t sure if they were legitimate though, or if they stayed open from all the fights.

 

The inside was made up of creaking wood and not much else, Dallon never stayed long in this part, he was always upstairs or downstairs. But the bar might have been described as  _meh_ , or  _not particularly enjoyable_ , by someone with better articulation than himself.

 

“Why are we here early?” Dallon finally had the courage to ask.

 

“Special guests Dally,” Mick said as he led Dallon down the stairs in the back of the kitchen, “I want to do a little networking.”

 

Dallon frowned but said nothing.

 

The stairs led down to much larger underground, bought out by the Italians and a bunch of other people Dallon would never speak to. On one end, there was a more high-quality bar, and on the other…

 

The Box.

 

Now that he was in its presence, he suddenly felt the need to look away and to maybe capitalize it in his head.

 

It was a wooden ring, an octagon, but it was called The Box. Because… Dallon didn’t know, it was easier to call it the Box than anything else. The floors around and in The Box was wood, before giving away to the regular cement, nothing bouncy like on TV, but thankfully softer than the stained and freezing cement.

 

Floodlights hung from the ceiling around The Box, but wouldn’t be turned on until the fight.

 

Dallon wouldn’t look at it until then either, it was bad luck. Mick, on the other hand, gave it a long look as he entered the basement, it made Dallon grind his teeth, nervous.

 

At the bar, Mick was greeted by characters that old writers would refer to as unsavory, and Dallon would refer to as  _fucking annoying_.

 

Mick seemed excited, as far as Dallon could see, Mick held emotions like that back, making it harder for him to be tricked, as Mick always said. But Dallon had known him long enough to tell that the tightening of his shoulders and the way he made his voice louder meant he was excited, greeting men much younger than himself with an anxious air.

 

The leader of the group shook his hand, equally excited, he was covered in tattoos that Dallon was too lazy to examine thoroughly, and he smiled viciously. For some reason, it made Dallon want to look away, something that told him: _Don’t Look_.

 

Mick introduced him briefly with a wave of his hand and was bombarded with questions from the group, the tattooed man staying silent. He tossed a Dallon a sly glance as Mick answered the questions as best he could. Dallon avoided the glance like it was a deadly disease and slipped past them as quick as he could, trying to seem smaller.

 

Sisky waved him over at the opposite side of the bar, a friendly but slightly scarred face.

 

“Hey D,” He smiled, “Hear you’re fighting Bob again, finally.” Dallon tensed, nodding.

 

“Uh, yeah, big night.”

 

Sisky took a sip of his drink, a blue ‘girly’ drink that Dallon had never tried before. Like a seasoned professional, Sisky’s eyes never strayed to The Box, glued to Dallon and the bar.

 

“I’m glad you took it D,” Sisky smiled, “You’re growing up… Plus, your fights are always kinda exciting! Your style gets really gets the crowd going.”

 

“Thanks, Sisky!” Dallon felt his ears get hot, but the feeling passed quickly, “But uh… You know-”  
  
“Yeah I know,” Sisky waved him off, “I’m still glad.” He leaned back against the bar, “I think… Let me tell you something, okay? Straight out?”

 

“Um, okay?” Dallon shrugged.

 

He turned his shoulders and faced The Box head-on, making Dallon whip around to face the bar, his stomach twisting. He was embarrassed, suddenly, imagining Sisky saying: “It’s a fucking spot of dirt, Dallon, seriously.”

 

He didn’t, and instead said: “We’re fucking cliches, aren’t we?”

 

“What do you mean?”

 

“I mean,” He sighed, “Just look, we’re in an illegal fight club, bet on by Italians, we’re practically some side characters in some mystery novel, and _yes_ , I know how to read, don’t believe Nicholas when he says that.”

 

“I guess…” Dallon looked over at him, “I sort of understand.”

 

“Yeah well, don’t take it too personally,” Sisky stirred the contents of his drink, “You’re the worst case out of us all.”

 

Dallon frowned, “I think I _am_ taking it personally Sisky.”

 

“No, fuck, I mean, come on D, that’s why I’m glad you’re taking this fight, even if it’s fixed,” Sisky finally turned away from the box and in towards the bar, “You’re called a White Knight for fuck’s sake, you don’t take fixed fights, you always use your money for good stuff, like that vacuum I saw you hauling once.”

 

Dallon thought back to the closet and the extremely unused vacuum hidden within its depths.

 

“Oh, yeah,” He said, “The vacuum.”

 

Sisky gives him a long look of exasperation, probably knowing exactly what had happened inside Dallon’s mind.

 

“Yeah, and if I had to guess, you’re probably gonna use this dirty money for something charitable-” Sisky rolled his eyes and Dallon almost blushed, “-or some shit, but seriously, D, once in a while, you’re allowed to be terrible, okay?”

 

“What?” Dallon had no idea what had suddenly made Sisky want to give him a philosophical talk on his own moral standards, and it might be too late to ask.

 

“I mean it’s okay to do stuff just for yourself once in awhile okay? You’re allowed to just want money and pleasure and pee where you want to pee.” Sisky paused, “Uh yeah…”

 

Dallon stared, “What’s the point of this.”

 

“Something completely unrelated, but, D,” Sisky looked him in the eye, “if you ever, in your life, get the chance to not be a complete and utter pussy, you should take it.”

 

Before Dallon could respond, The stairs to the basement echoed with an almost fate changing stomp. Bob Motherfucking Bryar was coming down the stairs, Dallon rolled his eyes, in all his douche sucking glory.

 

 _DOOM_ , said the stairs.

 

 _Fuck!_ Thought Dallon.

 

Sisky patted his shoulder in the Bro way, “You got this dude.”

 

Bob Bryar, wearing black and a lovely plaid scarf, which he was wearing while also living in Las Vegas, clapped his hands and gave Dallon a dirty glare.

 

“Alright piss-face,” Bob spat, trying to make it seem in good humor, “Why don’t we get down to business?”

 

Dallon forewent the theatrics, “OK, for our first order, why don’t we figure out better bad names for you to call me?” The group that Mick had been chatting to hooted with laughter and Bob sniffed.

 

His sponsor, Robbie Robertson, brushed past him nonchalantly to greet Mick with a shake of their hands, smiling cruelly at each other while exchanging pleasantries. “It’s good to be seeing you on the other side of the Box again, eh Mick?”

 

They seemed like they were trying to break each other’s fingers from the way the had been shaking hands for so long. Mick nodded, “Yessir Robbie, nice being opponents again, after so long.”

 

“Yes,” Robertson squeezed back harder, “It feels... _pure_.”

 

Dallon felt like he had rolled his eyes so hard, they would detach during the fight after a well placed punch and fall to the bottom of his skull and roll around in his cranium for the rest of his life.

 

At least he wouldn’t have to see Bob’s scarf again, or really any part of Bob’s terrible fashion choices.

 

The rest of the audience came down after that, Dallon met every single one and shook their hand, not out of his own merits, but he just really wanted their pity after the fight. They were mostly older men, their faces full of lines and greedy looking eyes, some were younger, businessmen that had aggressions to take out but too scared to actually join as a fighter. Dallon hated them the most. The women that came were much nicer, making pleasant conversation about his past fights and praising his skill. Dallon was probably the most afraid of them, they could probably order his death as easy as ordering an extremely expensive sherry, and look pretty fucking fabulous while doing it too.

 

“You’re too good, Dallon Weekes,” A woman named Joan Jett gripped his hand tight, “The Box hasn’t changed you.” Shit, Joan could probably kill him herself, she had been a fighter after all.

 

“Oh, I only do this with incredibly beautiful people,” He told her, smiling through a rapid heartbeat. She grabbed him by the collar, discreetly pulling him down so she could whisper in his ear: _“I’m betting against you, Dallon Weekes, this better be a good one.”_

 

She smirked and patted his shoulder.

 

“You are such a pretty boy.” She said, getting up on her toes to kiss his cheek. He gulped, then nodded.

 

“Dally!” Mick finally pulled him away, “Come on over here! We’ll get you all wrapped and ready to go.” One of Mick’s friends, Charlie Watts, sat Dallon down and began to wrap his fists and check him over for any other injuries.

 

“Well, you’re still bruised from the fight a couple weeks ago, but otherwise fine,” Charlie smiled, “I’m a big fan of the Hello Kitty,” Dallon swore and tore the bandages off as quick as he could. Charlie laughed, “As usual you get a mouth guard if you want-”

 

“No, it’s fine,” Dallon shook his head, “They want a good fight, I’ll go without.”

 

Mick smiled, “Try not to lose any teeth then, Dally! You got a nice face, it brings in the donations.”

 

“Yeah, sure…” Dallon pressed his thumbs into his palms, then flinched when he saw Robertson approaching, an ugly look on his wrinkled face.

 

“What do you want?” He practically snarled, Mick held out a hand to calm him down.

 

“What can I help you with Robbie?” He smiled pleasantly, “Dally and I were just discussing how nice it is to finally have another fight between old friends.”

 

“I was just having a discussion with Bob,” Robertson crossed his arms over his chest, “He said he wanted bets on.”

 

Dallon stood quickly, “No! No way.”

 

“That all depends, Robbie,” Mick held his hand out again, “Have you talked to the big boys?”

 

“I have,” Robertson seemed more and more coy with every response, “They said it would make for a more interesting fight.”

 

“I agree,” Mick nodded, “It would make things more entertaining, I’m sure Dally here does too?”

 

He shot Dallon a hard look and Dallon set his jaw, “Yes sir,” He said, practically grinding his teeth, “It would.”

 

“Wonderful,” Robertson smiled like the Grinch, quickly taking his leave to the other side of the basement.

 

“Are you actually fucking kidding me right now?!” Dallon took a hold of Mick’s collar, “I can’t believe you would actually take that!”

 

“It’s just the bets, Dally!” Mick frowned back, “And how would a few cheap shots really affect this fight?” He pulled away and Charlie stood to make sure Dallon didn’t suddenly swing on him. _“A_ fixed _fight, might I add?”_ Mick whisper yelled the last part.

 

“You know he just wants them so he can make me look like an idiot,” Dallon huffed.

 

“You have, what? Seven inches on that guy?” Charlie asked, “What would some hair pulling do against you? It’s just cheap shots, the fact he had to get his sponsor to speak for him says a lot, even if he’s supposed to win.”

 

Dallon sat in silence for the remainder of the wait, ignoring Bob’s snide glances from afar.

 

Keith meandered his way over after a few minutes, clutching a black metal detector that whined with every move it made. “Pat down,” He said.

 

Dallon weaved his fingers behind his head and stood still, waiting for the machine to yell at him, “Shoes,” Keith mumbled, and Dallon slid them off, it was his own personal choice to keep them off for the fight, shoes would squeak in his ears, and he thought only an idiot would ever wear socks on a wood floor.

 

“Nothing,” Keith flicked the detector off, “Which is always a nice surprise I guess, you always are anyway.”

 

“Bob?” Dallon asked, cracking his fingers and rolling his neck.

 

“Some change and his car keys,” Keith said, “He told me he had forgotten about them though.”

 

“Sure,” Dallon doubted it.

 

“Alright,” Mick stepped in and put his hands on his shoulders, “I’ll say what I always say: Do your best, and know that that is enough.”

 

“You never say that.” Dallon regarded him blankly.

 

“You’re right, you’re right,” Mick fanned himself dramatically, “So I’ll say what I actually say: You’re a great fighter, I’m sure you know that, so please do not mess up, I’m not a fan of how it makes me look in comparison.” He patted Dallon’s cheek.

 

“Great,” Dallon nodded.

 

He took his first look at The Box, the high cage fence and the wood floors made it look like a place for dog fights, except he was the dog.

 

Levon Helm, a most likely licensed asshole and friend of Robertson and Bob took his spot as an announcer in the middle of The Box, he smiled wide and the crowd’s loud conversation turned to a low din that resonated through the basement.

 

“Better start slowly,” Mick began to lead the way.

 

The repelling feeling that came from The Box reversed in Dallon’s stomach, pulling him towards its eight walls and stained smooth floors, it took the first few steps for him.

 

Levon took a deep breath, “Ladies! Gentlemen! Others!” His teeth seemed to glow as the floodlights switched on and Dallon’s breath hitched, “Why not get comfortable for a spell! Sit back! Relax! Let the money exchange hands! Oh, wait… that comes after doesn’t it?”

 

The crowd laughed softly.

 

“This will be a match that will have you at the tips of your toes! Or, at least I hope it will,” Levon gestured towards Bob’s side of the cage, “Our first man is recognizable, easily distinguishable! He’s a rule breaker, a veteran of the Box and-”

 

“A blond!” A man yelled from the crowd and a few of them clapped, chuckling at his joke. Dallon could feel Bob’s frustration from where he stood across the basement.

 

“It’s Bob Bryar!” Levon finished, his smile never fading.

 

Cheers and heckles washed over Dallon, and he pounded his fist in his palm as Bob entered the Box, thankfully losing his scarf and wearing only shorts and a t-shirt.

 

“Alright, go!” Mick pushed him forward, speeding his progress as Levon waved in his direction.

 

“And everyone’s favorite golden boy! A pretty face and a drive to win, towering over everyone he meets!” The crowd parted as Dallon passed, already clapping to greet him, Levon finished with a hearty shout of his name: _“Dallon James Weekes!”_

 

* * *

 

 

_“Are you settling in okay?”_

 

_“Yeah, I mean, it’s better than with my parents.”_

 

_“Well that’s good, and it’s a nice apartment too right?”_

 

_“Uh-huh, it’s clean-”_

 

_“Have you talked with any of your neighbors?”_

 

_“I’m still trying to get settled… There’s a guy across the hall.”_

 

_“Oh! Is he nice?”_

 

_“I… Honestly? I don’t know.”_

 

_“What do you mean?”_

 

_“Like, he’s kinda standoffish, but he’s not terrible or anything, and he goes out a lot?”_

 

_“Well, people are like that sometimes.”_

 

_“Yeah but… I don’t know, I think he’s a drug dealer.”_

 

 

  * **_**_Short phone conversation between Ryan Ross and an aunt, Las Vegas, Nevada_**_**



 

 

* * *

 

 

“I’m gonna make your face cave in,” Bob spat on the floor, “I hope you know that.”

 

“I know bets are on,” Dallon spat back, “But if you want to get a win pulled again, that’s how you do it.”

 

They were face to face in The Box close enough that their conversation wouldn’t be heard. Dallon almost had to hold back the urge to spit in his face. “Alright boys,” Levon pulled them in, “You know how it goes, bets are on, that means cheap shots are allowed, but we still want a nice fight, that means Bob,” He faced Bob, “No excessiveness, broken bones are still a no-no, and no vulgar displays either, the Italians will have not just your head, but mine too.” Bob nodded harshly, and Levon turned to Dallon, “And for you, you know what you have to do.”

 

Bob seemed delighted all of a sudden, “You have to throw it,” He licked his lips, You have to go down or you’re dead meat.”

 

“Fuck knows it’s the only way you would ever win a fight against me.” Dallon snarled down at him and Bob jerked, Levon held him down.

 

“Shake hands, boys,” He said, as were the rules, Dallon offered his hand automatically, Bob accepted it loosely.

 

“Let’s both agree to just have fun.” Dallon squinted as he tore his hand away.

 

“Oh I’ll have tons,” Bob said as Levon stepped back, “It’s a guarantee when I’m beating your ass.” They both took a step back to the edge of the Box and the crowd reached through the cage, touching his shoulders and cheering for his win. Dallon almost felt sorry they would lose their salaries over him.

 

Levon counted down from three, but the way he did it made time stretch into oblivion as Dallon put his wrapped fists up, he would have to guard his stomach and chest more than his face, a side effect of his height, and Bob could put more weight behind his punches too.

 

But Dallon was a better fighter, he knew it. That’s why he was liked, he put on a show despite his angled and thin frame.

 

Levon waved his hand and backed away, Mick yelled from the crowd: “Go!”

 

They began to circle each other, twitching and faking steps forward, with every step, the crowd pounded on the cage, yelling at them to tear each other apart.

 

Bob’s eye twitched.

 

Dallon stepped forward and he reciprocated, as fast as he could, Bob threw the first punch, Dallon dodged to the left and copied giving Bob no time to block. The first blow of the fight!

 

The crowd cheered, some of the more rambunctious ones shook against the cage, throwing quarters and dollar bills into The Box.

 

Dallon and Bob ignored them, already sweating in the harsh light.

 

They charged again, grabbing and pulling, hitting where they could, Dallon kneed Bob in the stomach and Bob returned it by grabbing him by the back of the neck and almost pushing him to the ground.

 

He kept his balance at the cost of putting distance between them, he ran back before Bob could think too hard about his next move.

 

A punch to the mouth split Bob’s lip and bloodied Dallon’s knuckles. Dallon came back from a palm being pushed up at his face with a bloody nose, he slapped Bob with an open palm that sent him spinning back and the crowd howled in hysterics.

 

Bob finally tackled him, bringing them both to the ground scrambling for purchase, pulling at hair and trying to poke the other in the eyes, Bob bit his ear before he could scramble away and it stung for a second.

 

Both faces bruised, breathing heavily, Dallon could see he had landed a nice hit on Bob’s ugly face and making it bruise and swell. His eye was red with blood from a vein bursting with impact.

 

Dallon caught his breath, spit something thick out of his mouth and onto the floor.

 

He was first to move this time, darting forward and grabbing Bob around the neck and leaning in, bringing them to the ground. Dallon lands a hard punch to his other eye before Bob pushes himself back on top.

 

He grabs Dallon by the hair and brings his head to the floor, there’s a ringing in his ears when he reaches up and pulled Bob’s hair down with him. They both blink in unison, dazed until Dallon lands a good, solid hit to Bob’s temple.

 

He goes down, and Dallon suddenly regrets it, if Bob didn’t get back up, the fight would be over and in Dallon’s favor.

 

Then they would have his head.

 

Bob finally pushes himself to stand, and Levon yells, “Round Two!”

 

Bob’s eyes were alight with an anger that might have been overdramatic had Dallon considered this some overzealous eighties movie, where Dallon would probably remember his mystic training in the Alps and kick Bob’s ass in a second flat.

 

But it wasn’t, and Bob was holding his own temper until the third when Dallon would give up and throw the fight. He obviously couldn’t wait for that to happen, which was made obvious when he licked his lips.

 

Dallon almost couldn’t hold back his grimace.

 

The crowd grew antsy, waiting for someone to make the first move.

 

It was Bob, no surprise, who instead of a punch, sent an ugly looking kick into Dallon’s side that he had to jump awkwardly to avoid, he grabbed it, pushed it down, and sent a punch to Bob’s throat.

 

He hacked and coughed, then leaped at Dallon.

 

Round two ended with another close call, Bob hit the floor and wasted an entire three seconds getting back up. By then, both of them were breathing heavy, and Dallon could feel the sweat slide down his back, he wondered if Bob was still enjoying his guaranteed win.

 

Mick almost threw the water bottle in his face when Dallon grabbed for it, “You know what’s gotta happen!” He whispered furiously, making it seem as if he was rubbing Dallon’s shoulders.

 

“Yeah, yeah,” Dallon sarcastically tilted his head side to side, “It’s not as if I haven’t been hearing it for the last week and a half-”

 

“Good, good, get your ass beat,” Mick pushed him back into The Box, “Then tell me all about it.”

 

Levon grabs him and Bob and pulls them in, “Round three!” He yells, practically roaring over the crowd's sudden hysteria. Dallon didn’t wait for the square off and immediately sent a sloppy downward swing into Bob’s bruised face.

 

A few people in the crowd screamed in celebration, it was something new, and Dallon felt his chest swell, he wondered if he could drag this fight to round four and make Bob eat his own shorts.

 

He stepped back to look for an in, somewhere Bob wasn’t guarding and caught it.

 

Stupidly, he faltered.

 

Dallon’s exact thoughts as he spun from the impact of Bob’s punch went like this:

 

_Shit shit shit did I really-? Goddamn It, fuck this shit, I bet Tyler Durden never did shit like that._

 

_Shit now you’re thinking of Fight Club, this is bullshit fuck Edward Norton and fuck Bob Bryar and his dumb scarf, shit, fuck Ryan and his dumb scarves too, and that fucking earring, who the fuck does that? Why does that guy wear so much flower patterns? Why did Mick only get me a six-piece chicken nugget meal when he knows for a damn fact I could eat ten of those crispy fake bitches? What the fuck-_

 

Dallon rammed his entire body into the chain link fence that separated him from the monstrous crowd and he had to wrap his fingers around the links so he wouldn’t fall. People were yelling in his ears as he waited for his brain to stop doing pirouettes behind his eyes.

 

His mouth tasted like blood, and he gasped trying to swallow spit, he looked up, squinting against the floodlights. In front of him, or at least behind the fence, stood the man from earlier, the one covered in tattoos that Mick had spoken to before the fight.

 

The man smiled when Dallon looked up at him, and the same voice at the back of his head said: _Don’t Look._

 

This time, he was too tired to listen.

 

He felt his eyes widen involuntarily, and the man seemed to smile even wider in response.

 

His teeth-

 

Bob pulled him back by his shirt collar, throwing him to the other side.

 

He lost, Dallon knew it, and whatever he had seen-

 

He shook it from his mind as Bob hit him again and again against the fence.

 

Dallon couldn’t find an open and sent weak hits to Bob’s shoulders, but he was too dazed, too tired, and Bob hated him just too much.

 

He fell to the ground, the crowd yelling at him to get up! _Get Up!_

 

Bob was on top of him, punching him again, and again, and again, and again-

 

His mouth tasted like copper and he couldn’t move, only spasm against the ground that Bob was holding him against.

 

The only thing he heard before he finally blacked out was Bob grunting: _I win, I win, I win!_

 

* * *

 

 

_Dallon!_

_I found your number!_

_Listen I know you don’t wanna talk, I mean, you forgot my birthday!_

_Baby, listen, you’re my son! I love you to pieces! Maybe you could…_

_Listen I don’t need money! I’m looking for a second job, I got a new_

_boyfriend! He cares about me! Just like you apparently, don’t!_

_Listen, baby, I just want to hear your voice… I’m…_

_Shut up, Steven! Dallon baby, come home…_

_Because I said so! Right? I’m your mother, and I swear I’ll…_

_You hear about that little boy in Chicago? I just wanna-_

_*Voicemail is full*_

 

 

  * **_**_Voicemail from Dallon Weekes’ mother, deleted immediately, Las Vegas, Nevada_**_**



 

 

* * *

 

 

Dallon’s chest hurts.

 

He’s in the upstairs part of the bar instead of the basement, and the bed creaks with his every move, it has an old, flowery quilt that he’s probably already bled on.

 

Charlie was there.

 

“Mick had business, but he sends his best.” He said when he saw Dallon was awake.

 

“Gr-” Dallon grimaces, “Great, I know.” He didn’t take offense, it was how things were.

 

“Stay on your back,” Charlie tries to push him back down, “Rest, seriously.”

 

Dallon ignored him, ignored the pounding in his head, and the pressing feeling in his chest, “Take me home.”

 

“You’ve only been sleeping for about an hour, are you sure-?”

 

“Please,” Dallon looked up at him, “I don’t want to sleep in this room.

 

Besides his own blood, the sheets on the bed were already stained, and the so was the wood floor, the walls were decorated with old pictures of long-dead people that seemed to stare at him as he limped out of the room.

 

Charlie drove him home in an old Subaru, tossing concerned glances in his direction. His chest felt tight.

 

“It’s the bruises,” Dallon wouldn’t let him look.

 

“I don’t like that room either,” Charlie told him after a while, “I try to clean it best I can… but some stains are too much for even hydrogen peroxide.”

 

Dallon looked out the window, but finally responded after a few minutes, “It was the man before you.”

 

“Yeah,” Charlie turned the car softly so Dallon wouldn’t get jostled, “I know.”

 

“I sometimes heard screams, he didn’t care about anesthesia.”

 

“Dallon…” Charlie gave him a fleeting look, “he wasn’t a good doctor, but none of us really were, his license was revoked, and so was mine… but I’m not like that.”

 

“I know.”

 

“I can’t force you but… I really want to be able to look at you, and keep you healthy, I see a lot of people get hurt and killed, especially now that this is my job,” Charlie sped up his speech as he saw Dallon’s building in the distance, “I want you to know I wouldn’t do stuff like the man before me… and Dallon, you’re a lot hardier than folks give you credit, it baffles me sometimes, but I want to make sure you stay that way.”

 

He stopped the car in front of the apartment building.

 

“Thanks, Charlie,” Dallon’s chest kept feeling tight, it hurt, but he grunted and stepped out of the Subaru, “I… I know, and thanks.”

 

“Get some rest, put some ice on… everything,” Charlie gave him a small grin, “You’ll get your money real quick, and a better fight.”

 

Dallon saluted, hiding a grimace.

 

The walk up the stairs was aching and torturous, Dallon wondered if his face was finally screwed past just bad angles and had transcended into something far more powerful.

 

Like a circle of ugly, or something.

 

A whole Pythagorean Theorem of gross.

 

It felt like there were roses in his chest, if he was allowed to be poetic at a time like this, and the thorns were stabbing his lungs while the rest of the flower chafed against the rest of his insides.

 

His breath came out in rasping bursts, but he was still alive.

 

He fumbled with his keys, which Charlie had handed to him in the car, and made his way down the hallway. He almost didn’t register the voice as he approached his door.

 

“Holy shit, what happened!?” Ryan asked.

 

Dallon’s hands shook, he couldn’t see his lock-

 

“Seriously, you look like… I don’t even know, but oh my god-”

 

He dropped his keys, was he crying? He was having trouble feeling anything aside from the bruises on his face.

 

“Dallon, come on-” Ryan stepped forward, unsure of what to do besides reach his hands out. Dallon stepped away from his touch, his head swimming, “Dallon, what- What happened?”

 

“I-” Dallon swayed, looking for an excuse, “Mugged-”

 

His knees buckled, and Ryan rushed forward.

 

Then, he was lying on a rough feeling couch. His legs falling over the side, he kept his eyes closed.

 

He could breathe again, sort of, the thorny feeling was returning, creeping back into his lungs with every breath, and the thick smell of rain and lavender wasn’t helping his cause.

 

He was in Ryan’s apartment, he knew it.

 

His own apartment smelled like the street outside, how Ryan had managed to avoid that symptom was unknown to Dallon.

 

His eyelids felt heavy, but the throbbing on his face and well, his everywhere else, had faded, miraculously. The deeper cuts were still there, but distant and instead of a stabbing pain, it had dulled, it seemed almost as if the smell had covered him, blocking the pain.

 

Dallon didn’t like this.

 

But also, he really didn’t feel like moving.

 

A heavy sigh brought Dallon back from slipping back into sleep, he was half awake, and for a moment it felt like he was in a dream.

 

He kept his eyes shut, halfway back to a heavy slumber.

 

“Okay,” Ryan was talking, Dallon shut his eyes tighter, sleep still pressing down on him, “Okay, okay, great, this is great.” His voice wavered.

 

“God this is the worst fucking…” He kept talking, his voice echoing in Dallon’s head as he tried to shut it out. “Shit, I mean, goddamnit I’m talking to myself… This is my fault I should never have moved out, this is bullshit.”

 

Dallon was awake, unfortunately, and Ryan kept talking.

 

“I can deal with my mom, I can deal with all her passive-aggressive crap and her locking my stuff away, I can deal with that, at least I had my aunt to-” He stopped briefly, then kept going, “And now I have a dead looking drug dealer on my couch, shit shit shit, what would Gams even _do_ for something like this?”

 

“What are you talking about?” Dallon’s voice was clouded and thick from drowsiness and he finally opened his eyes to a see a blurry figure pacing the length of his living room. The figure let loose a loud sigh of relief.

 

“Thank _Mother Earth,_ I thought you were gonna die or something-” Ryan rushed over to sit on the coffee table in front of Dallon, “-I put a few spells on your bruises and cuts but you weren’t waking up-”

 

Dallon squeezed his eyes shut again, _“What?”_

 

Ryan talked quieter, “This is all my fault Dallon, I am so sorry, I took it too far, I cast Bad Luck to get back at you a few days ago and I thought it would just be small stuff but now you’re… you’re beaten half to death, I cut off the spell the second I put you on my couch.”

 

Dallon’s head started to pound, “Please, _fuck_ -” He shifted to try and sit up, “Shut up for a second.”

 

Ryan ignored him and helped him sit up, “I know you’re an asshole but I swear I’m not making this up, I’ll even forgive you for that shit about Hogwarts, I’m the one that took it too far-”

 

The pressing feeling in his chest returned and Dallon blinked away the fog in his eyes.

 

Ryan’s apartment was identical to his own, except for the cardboard boxes, half unpacked with colorful books and decorations. It was far more colorful than Dallon’s too, more picture frames and patterned rugs, the ugly chair from the lobby was there too, pushed in the place of honor facing the TV.

 

Ryan was talking to himself now more than Dallon., “We can start over, I don’t know why we got off on such a bad foot, but I swear I can make this right… Okay, and I know I can whine and be annoying, my mom always says I overstep and yeah, I do talk way too much about all this witch stuff-”

 

“What-” Dallon gasped, his ribs seemed to crack under his skin, _“What are you even talking about?”_

 

Ryan watched him wheeze with guilt in his eyes, “I already told you… I mean, you called it a fetish and then used Harry Potter against me but… I’m a witch, Dallon, I cast a Bad Luck charm on you a few days ago because of what you said, and those flowers I gave you were to help protect your property-”

 

Dallon’s chest ached and throbbed, and he struggled to take deep breaths.

 

“-That’s why all that stuff happened. The elevator and… I don’t know, the other stuff, but now you come back from getting mugged, I’m so so sorry I didn’t know it would get worse and worse when I cast it-” Dallon grabbed his collar, ignoring the shit about casting spells and getting mugged:

 

“I can’t-” His chest was on fire, _“Breath.”_

 

Ryan reacted almost immediately, dislodging himself from Dallon’s grip and standing to grab a bowl of something that smelled disgustingly sweet, “I made this for your bruises and cuts but-!” Ryan scrambled, “It’s supposed to heal external stuff! I don’t-” He set the bowl down and grabbed another one full of long crystal-like objects, looking for the correct one.

 

Dallon coughed up blood, keeling over and gasping, vision blurry.

 

Ryan sat down in front of him again, frantic, clutching one of the objects and reaching towards Dallon, “I- I don’t know how to help you-” His voice cut off when the crystal in Ryan’s hand let loose a burst of light and Dallon felt nothing at all.

 

* * *

 

 

_Ryan,_

_I got your message!_

_I knew your grandma, she was a cool lady!_

_So sorry to hear what happened, but it’s awesome_

_you’ve left the nest! I live in the city too, not in the_

_same building though, sorry. I’ll stop by whenever_

_you need me! Show me your skills! I figure if you’re_

_Joanna’s grandkid, you must take after her._

_You have my number! Can’t wait to meet you!_

 

 

  * **_**_Old note hanging on Ryan Ross’s refrigerator, unsigned, Las Vegas, Nevada._**_**



 

 

* * *

 

 

He heard voices.

 

_“I don’t know what I did.”_

 

_“Well whatever you did, it worked, you put him in a stasis long enough for me to come.”_

 

_“Still-”_

 

_“Ryan, buddy, you did good, and from what I’m seeing right now, you’re talented! You healed up the worst of his injuries.”_

 

_“I couldn’t heal his ribs, he almost died.”_

 

_“Internal injuries are a whole different ballgame, Ryan, you did the best you could, and your best gets better every time I see you.”_

 

A heavy silence.

 

Dallon swore he recognized the voice.

 

 _“I shouldn’t have to call you for this kind of stuff… I’m a green witch, healing and life and shit… that’s_ supposed _to be my ballgame.”_

 

_“Look, you can’t keep beating yourself up, it’s not gonna help anything, you’re still learning, and you’re not Joanna-”_

 

_“I know.”_

 

Dallon could move his arms, and he groaned.

 

The fire in his chest was gone.

 

The voices were clearer, and Dallon knew he recognized the second one.

 

“Well, I should go-”

 

“No, wait, Adam, what if he’s still-”

 

“He’ll be fine-”

 

Dallon’s eyes flew open to catch the second voice reaching for the door, “Sisky!”

 

“What the shit!” Sisky, a.k.a. Adam T. Fucking Siska, startled, “What are you? Superhuman?!”

 

“Wait-” Ryan stood.

 

Dallon shifted as fast as he could, “What the hell, how do you know Ryan… and how did you-” Dallon looked down at his chest, his stained shirt was torn open, and purple splotches covered his skin. A hastily washed off symbol was faint in the middle of his ribcage. “What the fuck-”

 

“You two know each other?” Ryan rocketed to his feet, “From where? What the heck!”

 

“It’s nothing!” Sisky was scrambling and Dallon tried to stand, Ryan turned rapidly.

 

“Don’t stand! You’re still healing!” Dallon ignored him.

 

“What the fuck is going on!” He stood and stumbled forward his head pounded once, twice, and his chest tingled.

 

 _“Fuck,”_ Sisky whispered.

 

“Adam?” Ryan clutched the crystal object from earlier, “I mean, I’m not mad or anything but-”

 

“What did you do to me?!” Dallon jabbed his finger at the symbol on his chest, the tingling turned into a throb.

 

Ryan bit his lip, “Seriously, sit down, you’ll undo it-”

 

“Your ribs were broken,” Sisky gave up, showing Dallon his palms, “Your chest was close to caving when I got here, your lungs were being torn, I helped Ryan knit you back together, now will you _please._ , sit down before it get’s undone?” He came back to stand by Ryan.

 

They sat down at the same time, Dallon on the couch, Sisky, and Ryan on the coffee table. Offhand, it reminded him of that show, Friends.

 

 _Ryan is Phoebe_ , he thought, at the back of his mind.

 

 _You’re a fucking idiot_ , the lovely voice inside his head told him.

 

Sisky clapped his hands uncomfortably.

 

 _“What,”_ Dallon grit through his teeth, “Is this?” He pointed to his chest again.

 

“That is…” Sisky paused, “That’s a healing rune, to heal your broken ribs-”

 

Ryan pulled at his hair, “It’s my fault, I said-”

 

Sisky interrupted, “You have to tell Mick-”

 

“You know I can’t tell Mick this shit!” Dallon stopped both of them, “You know what happened last time.”

 

“Okay seriously!” Ryan stood up to pace, “Come on, how do you know each other?”

 

“How do I-?” Dallon scoffed, “How do you two know each other?!”

 

 _“Familial ties.”_ Ryan spat.

 

“Oh, that really helps,” Dallon grumbled.

 

“We know each other from-” Sisky glanced at Dallon for a second, “-From work.”

 

“You don’t-!” Ryan paced harder, “You don’t work! Adam! You told me ages ago you don’t! Why are you lying-”

 

“I’m not!” Sisky stood, leaving Dallon to roll his eyes, impatient, “I know what I said, but I’m not lying, Dallon, tell him, we know each other from work.”

 

“First of all,” Dallon stared at the ceiling, “The second Ryan said he was a witch was the second I left this conversation for something else, second, I barely know you as it is, Sisky, honestly, you spent last night insulting my way of life-”

 

“I was philosophizing!”

 

“-Doesn’t matter!” Dallon snapped, “You could have taken me to Charlie! Instead of-” He waved at the ink on his chest, “-Whatever this shit is!”

 

“Who’s Charlie? What are you talking about!” Ryan stomped, “And Mick! Who is that? Was that that guy that was in your apartment?” He was clutching the crystal tightly, waving it back and forth between Dallon and Sisky. Dallon crossed his arms and Sisky stared at his feet.

 

“Why are you lying to me?” Ryan looked hurt, directing his gaze to Sisky, “You said you can help me and now you’re keeping things from me? I’m a witch for fucking-” He squeezed his eyes shut, “I think I know how to handle a secret.”

 

“You told me the first chance you got.” Dallon pointed out and Ryan stopped.

 

“Well… Well, yeah.”

 

“You can tell whoever you want about your…” Sisky wiggled his fingers, “But this is different, Ryan, I have to keep a few secrets, especially from Sightless, like Dallon-”

 

“Again with the insults,” Dallon sighed, “I should have just let Bob beat the shit outta me,” Ryan’s head snapped to him, “And yes Ryan, I know who did this, I didn’t actually get mugged, if we’re all sharing with each other, Sisky and I fight in an illegal ring for rich assholes and- If you’re still with me- The fucking Italian mob.”

 

“You told me you were a Sage!” Ryan jabbed a finger at Sisky, “Gams trusted you!”

 

“I’m still a Sage, dumbass!” Sisky yelled back, any louder there would be a noise complaint from the neighbors, “I can’t believe that’s the part you latched onto, did you not hear him say _Italian Mob?!”_

 

“I have _ears,_ Adam,” Ryan sneered, “What I’m _concerned_ about is the fact that you fight, for money!”

 

“Sometimes for over eight thousand dollars,” Dallon assisted, and Ryan thrust a hand in his direction, still staring at Sisky.

 

“I expected this from him, but you?” Ryan moved to sit down on the couch and Dallon shifted to the end. “You’re supposed to… I don’t know, not be doing stuff like this.”

 

Sisky sat down in the wicker chair, instantly regretting it, from the look on his face. He told Ryan a story Dallon had heard already, about never graduating from the eighth grade and learning to fight, but this time, there was something added. Sisky’s mom. She had, instead of being absent, like Dallon had first been told, but was actually a key point. She taught him runes and alchemy and, most suspiciously, fighting.

 

“There’s another part,” He told Ryan, who was picking at the dirt under his fingernails, “About-”

 

“Did Gams know? That you’re a… a…” Ryan was picking at his fingernails.

 

“A scofflaw?” Dallon supplied, he had fully checked into the conversation, deciding to ignore the magic bullshit.

 

“Yeah, she did.”

 

Ryan put his head in his hands, “What’s the other part?”

 

Sisky rubbed the back of his head, “Dallon?” he ventured.

 

“What?”

 

“Do you remember… before you went down?”

 

Dallon did, he nodded.

 

“I’m not talking about Bob pulling you back, but before that…” Sisky hesitated, “What did you see? If you saw anything.”

 

Dallon frowned, “I got pushed into the fence, and there was that guy with the tattoos, and Bob pulled me back.” Ryan had sat back up, frowning with Dallon.

 

“What does this have to do with-” Sisky shushed him.

 

“I know it was more than that, Dallon, that guy smiled, I saw it from the other side of the Box, you swear there was nothing?”

 

Dallon took a moment.

 

That voice at the back of his mind: _Don’t Look._

 

He had looked anyway, his eyebrows furrowed, Sisky took that as an answer.

 

“That’s the other part, Ryan,” He started, finally, Dallon gave in.

 

“His teeth-” He leaned forward, “They were…” Sisky nodded and Dallon gestured at his mouth, “And there was a voice-”

 

“Telling you to look away,” Sisky finished, “That’s what I meant by Sightless, earlier, when you saw the rune, it means regular people who can’t see what… What Ryan or I can see, but now that you’ve ignored that… that voice, you’re not Sightless anymore. I don’t know how it works, but it keeps shit like _this_ -” He gestured at Ryan’s apartment, “-Away from eyes that might not be so accepting.”

 

“And this guy with the teeth,” Ryan jumped in again, “What were you gonna say? What are you keeping from… us?” Dallon held back a flinch of surprise.

 

“That guy is Ronnie Radke,” Sisky explained, “He’s back from… somewhere, I don’t know, from what I’ve been told, people all around, people like Ronnie, are disappearing and coming back different. Originally, I was… I was assigned to Las Vegas by my superiors-”

 

 _“You work for the government?”_ Dallon asked.

 

“What do you mean different?” Asked Ryan at the same time.

 

“No!” Sisky exclaimed at Dallon, “And...This will sound… weird, but, I work for, besides being a Sage I mean, but my family is part of a group that-” He stumbled and sighed, “This is getting harder to explain, but I mean different in the fact that... “ He copied Dallon and gestured at his mouth, “He’s a… a vampire-” Dallon stood suddenly, sending a hot flash into his chest.

 

“No, no, fuck this,” He tried stepping to the door but Sisky stood to block him, “You can’t just- I’m getting _punked_ or something- You asshole you can’t just- The stupidest thing I’ve ever heard-”

 

“Then how did Ryan heal you?” Sisky asked, “How do I know what you saw, even though it could have easily been your brain pulling shit from that punch? How can you see half the crap in this apartment?”

 

Dallon stared down at him, pretending not to see the crystals and strange animal bone mobiles and the wicker chair that was weaving a hole in its structure back together all on its own, as if staring Sisky down and leaving the apartment, these things would cease to exist. He could go back to his ugly little apartment, and maybe even vacuum the damn place.

 

“I’m…” Ryan was staring at his feet, “I didn’t know there were… Vampires, either, Dallon.”

 

“Because they’re not real,” Dallon kept his eyes on Sisky, “This asshole-”

 

“You saw what you saw,” Sisky’s voice was steady, “You can’t go back, Dallon, you’re not Sightless anymore, and you’re not gonna be Sightless ever again, I can’t change what happened, face it, Dallon, you’re different now, Ryan is still a witch, Ronnie is a vampire, and I’m- I’m a Hunter and a Sage.”

 

Dallon pushed him out of the way and slammed Ryan’s door behind him. The scissors at the top of the door frame fell to the floor.

 

Dallon ignored the white web that surrounded it, dimly glowing before fading away, no longer protecting the door from unwanted intruders.

 

He took a shower in his own apartment.

 

His cuts had faded to scars, and his scars faded to bruises.

 

He was still peppered with hurt, purple and blue and black splotches that decorated him like an ugly Halloween decoration. He washed the ink off his chest, but it was still there, an imprint on his mind, it didn’t show up in the mirror, or when Dallon looked at his chest directly. But it was there, a faded stain.

 

He ignored it.

 

His apartment was not Ryan’s.

 

It didn’t have mobiles or crystals or ugly chairs and sixties style decor.

 

It had angry punched in holes in the walls and shag carpeting. It had a nice TV, a couch, a bed, and a kitchen.

 

It had flowers in a vase on the counter.

 

They didn’t do anything special.

 

He pretended not to see the faint web of light that extended from the bases of their stalks and threw them away. Concealing his home from unwanted guests.

 

He examined a small symbol on his hand that was already fading away, it might have been blackened before.

 

He pretended to not hear his mind whisper: _Ryan’s Bad Luck Charm._

 

His phone rang at midnight as Dallon was falling asleep to Law and Order SVU.

 

“Dally!” Mick’s voice rang out. “I hope you’re feelin’ better!”

 

“Uh, yeah, I am, a little,” Dallon answered.

 

“I have some good news!” Mick was talking quietly, “You’ll be getting five thousand, instead of four.”

 

Dallon’s mouth parted, “What? Really?”

 

“After Bob’s little meltdown, and obvious break of _the rules-_ as Keith was telling me- You’re getting some good old apology money!” Mick shifted the phone, “Listen, Dally, the Man, and I mean, The Man, wants to talk to you.”

 

“The… Man?” Dallon had heard the name before, “He’s like… the boss, right?”

 

“The real deal Dally, he wants to chat!” Mick sounded excited, “He wasn’t at the fight, but he heard, Bob’s still getting three thousand, unfortunately, but he still did what he was told so really there’s not much I can do in that direction-”

 

“Mick!” Dallon interrupted, “Why does… The Man, want to talk to me? Isn’t he like… the boss?”

 

“The big boss, Dally, and why would I know something like that?” Mick paused and someone else’s voice came through the receiver, muffled and indistinguishable, “Listen, Dally, I’ll be outside your apartment at four or so, meet me then and I’ll get you to The Man.”

 

“Right, okay,” Dallon said as the line went dead.

 

* * *

 

 

_Adam,_

 

_Unless you were previously aware, I must inform you of a grievous turn of events in the last few days. The disappearance of the Chicago teen, Patrick Stump, is still being investigated, but prior to that (It’s been thought that these two to be related but I digress, it is only speculation) It seems that blood banks across the Midwest have begun to be rather dry of resources._

_Things like this do happen sometimes, but not at a rate like this, which has begun far more serious than previously thought._

_In your area (the Las Vegas Chapter), Sightless have been reported to be going missing, usually those with a heavy criminal type background, and are coming back turned. This is, of course, a direct violation of Association Law, but there have been no advances into finding those responsible and interrogation of the Fresh Turned have been fruitless. They’re too loyal to their patron. On top of that, there have just been straight killings, people getting targeted for no obvious reason._

_As usual, your tasks in Las Vegas remain the same. But, should there be any interference by vampires (Specifically the Fresh Turned) pursue the matter as best as you can._

_Thank you,_

_Dave Grohl (New York Chapter, Third Class)_

 

 

  * ****Letter sent to Adam Siska from The New York Chapter of The International Hunters Guild Third Class president, Dave Grohl, Las Vegas, Nevada.****



 

 

* * *

 

 

The car was all black, the windows were tinted, and Dallon couldn’t see the driver.

 

Overkill.

 

Mick opened the back door from the inside, “Dally! Get in!”

 

There was a window between the back seat and the driver, Dallon couldn’t see through

 

_Overkill._

 

“So um…” Dallon buckled his seatbelt.

 

“Charlie must have been exaggerating!” Mick looked him up and down, “Made it sound like you were beaten to hell!”

 

“Oh,” Dallon looked down at the bruises on his hands, “Yeah it was just a lot of uh… blood and stuff, it makes everything look worse.” Mick nodded in agreement.

 

“And you’re wearing something nice, good,” Mick hummed, “I want this to go well.”

 

“Where are we going?” Dallon didn’t recognize the street outside the window. Tall hedges and stucco housing, more expensive than Dallon could afford.

 

“His office, I’m sure,” Mick said, “I’ve never actually been…”

 

Deep into the neighborhood, the car finally stopped in front of a small gate that opened automatically. The driveway wasn’t a circle, like Dallon had seen in so many movies, and instead went straight to the garage, it was a modest house.

 

Even with its size.

 

“Not Buckingham Palace, I see,” Mick whistled appreciatively, “I like it, very humble.” He opened the door and shuffled out, Dallon copied him on the other side.

 

“I feel like I’m in The Godfather.” Dallon crossed his arms awkwardly.

 

“I say that every single day.” Mick joined him as the driver rolled down his window.

 

“Go up the steps,” He pointed, “Someone will take you to him.” Mick stepped up immediately and Dallon said his thank you.

 

A maid opened the front door from the inside and let them in, then asked: “Which of you is Dallon Weekes?” Mick pointed at him with his thumb.

 

“That would be this string bean.”

 

“Then you,” She gestured to Dallon, “Follow me, you-” She pointed to Mick, “Go to the kitchen, upstairs, and wait.” Mick made no objections out loud but gave Dallon a pleading look as he passed. Dallon only shrugged and hurried to catch up to the maid already making her way up down a long hallway.

 

He almost expected some sort Labyrinth-like puzzle to pop up at every turn, or David Bowie to appear in tight clothes and call himself the Goblin King, or however that movie went.

 

Until two men Dallon recognized from the fights appeared, the house had no damning evidence that it was in any associated with any sort of mob. There were pictures on the walls, old family photos in black and white, along with newer, more personal looking pictures. A grade school boy with a small smile, gradually growing older as the hallway went on.

 

The supposed office was guarded by these two men, who looked ready to grab Dallon by the arms and toss him back outside. The maid looked like she would help.

 

Until the door clicked open.

 

The man standing in the door wasn’t a big one. He didn’t look like the boss of anything, he wasn’t intimidating or particularly scary.

 

He looked like Dallon’s high school computer science teacher.

 

“Boys, calm down,” His smile was thin, but had meaning, “This is Dallon Weekes.”

 

He was let into the office.

 

Its windows rose high, but otherwise, it was like any other office, with a nice wooden desk and the newest desktop computer. It was also extravagant, in its own mundane way, and the fact that it belonged to a mob boss.

 

“Sit.” The Man gestured to a nice leather chair in front of the desk.

 

Dallon sat.

 

The Man sat.

 

He clasped his hands on the desk, smiled and said: “I’m glad you agreed to a meeting Dallon.”

 

“Well thanks for meeting me Mr. uh,” Dallon scrambled, _what should he call him? Mr. The Man? Mr. Man? Bro?_

 

“Iero.” Mr. Iero completed.

 

“Thank you, Mr. Iero.”

 

Mr. Iero let out a small huff of laughter and leaned with his hands clasped on his desk. “So, let’s talk, about the fight.” Dallon nodded.

 

“It was fixed,” He supplied, Mr. Iero hummed in agreement.

 

“It was,” He said, “I’m the one that fixed it.” Dallon pressed his thumbs into his palms. “I am sorry for that, you’re a good fighter, you deserve good fights.”

 

“Thank you, sir.”

 

“And of course, I know your situation with Bob Bryar.”

 

Dallon looked up at him, his gaze was steady on Dallon. “He uh, doesn’t like me, sir.”

 

“No, he doesn’t,” Mr. Iero shuffled the papers on his desk. “He’s a hassle on my end as well… He’s rude, starts fights when he shouldn’t… He’s a bit racist as well,” He gave Dallon a wide-eyed look, “But popular… I honestly have to say Dallon, from what I had been hearing I expected you to be, well-”

 

“Beaten to hell?” Dallon guessed.

 

“Yes,” Mr. Iero smirked, “But Mick does over-exaggerate, I’ve learned, even so, Bob was too brutal, and he broke the rules.” He took out a pen and a checkbook, “So you know I’m offering you consolation, five thousand, while Bob gets three.” He signed the check in looping script and handed it to Dallon.

 

“I mean…” Dallon hesitated to take it, “You don’t have to-”

 

“Take the money, Dallon.”

 

Dallon took it, “Thank you.” Mr. Iero smiled again.

 

“You remind me of my son, in a way, “ He said, “Never wanted anything to be handed to him either.” He grabbed a picture frame off his desk to look at it, “He wanted to earn his place, Frank, he wanted to be a fighter.” Mr. Iero showed Dallon the picture, a stocky boy with short hair gave him a thin smile in front of a blue, school picture background.

 

“Oh,” Dallon looked at the photo for what seemed like an appropriate amount of time, “I’ve never seen him around The Box before.”

 

“No… You wouldn’t have,” Mr. Iero delicately placed the picture back on his desk, “He disappeared a couple of years ago.”

 

“Oh,” Dallon repeated, “I’m sorry.”

 

“Call it desperation, or parental intuition,” Mr. Iero shrugged, “But I still feel it’s possible he’s alive somewhere.” Dallon nodded, agreeing.

 

“Now,” Mr. Iero suddenly shed his high school teacher shell and stood in such a way that Dallon knew he was meant to remain in his seat, he paced briefly. “I want to put forth another offer brought to my attention.”

 

“Sir?”

 

“You might know, everybody does,” Mr. Iero had his hands clasped behind his back, “Ronald Radke.”

 

“I heard he came back to town,” Dallon shrugged, “He left a little after I started, so I don’t know a lot.”

 

“Well he watched your fight,” Mr. Iero supplied, Dallon nodded, blocking the images that came to mind, “He’s impressed, even came to me saying so… He wants to get in the box with you.”

 

Dallon’s mind flashed, “But… I lost.” Mr. Iero hummed, outside, the sun was sinking in the sky.

 

“Nevermind that, he told me he was impressed, in fact-” He checked his watch, “-He had plans to-” There was a knock on the door, “Ah, that must be him.”

 

“Wait, what?” Dallon twisted in his seat to see the maid from earlier open the door. The tattooed man, the one with the smile Dallon wanted to forget, stepped into the office.

 

“Ronald!” Mr. Iero smiled, “Glad to see you finally join us.”

 

Dallon stood, to be polite.

 

Ronnie’s smile was sly as he stepped into the room, “Sorry if I kept you waiting.”

 

“Not at all,” Mr. Iero was somehow immune to Ronnie and his creepy way of doing things, unlike Dallon, who was suddenly hyper-aware of everything he did.

 

The sun had disappeared behind a building.

 

“It’s nice to finally meet you,” Ronnie came to stand next to Dallon, “Without the blood on your face.”

 

“Uh,” Dallon glanced at him, “You too.”

 

_You too?!_

 

“Ronald,” Mr. Iero coaxed, “Why not give him your offer?” Ronnie nodded.

 

“Well, seeing as I’m back in town…” Ronnie’s voice seemed to smirk on its own, “I want to get back in the game, I liked what I saw the other day.” He stuck out a hand, “What do you say? Be my first fight back?”

 

Dallon looked at him and he smiled, his teeth-

 

Dallon looked down at Ronnie’s hand. He shook it. “I’d uh…” He kept his gaze on the floor, “I’d be honored.”

 

Mr. Iero, who Dallon decided looked a lot like a mob boss, clapped, “This is wonderful, to see two of my prized fighters finally going head to head… Dallon, my driver outside can take you home, I need to have a chat with Ronald here, and your sponsor Mick.” Dallon nodded.

 

“Yes, sir.”

 

He hurried out before he could say anything else.

 

Ronnie’s gang was there, in the entryway, sneering at him as he passed, he looked away before they could say anything.

 

The driver, although Dallon still hadn’t seen his face, was far more polite, and started the car the second he sat down in the back seat.

 

The check in his pocket seemed to weigh him down and he took it out, rolling it into a thin tube and releasing it.

 

_$5,000~_

 

Dallon suddenly felt the unmistakable and extremely recognizable sensation that he had just shot himself in the foot so many times he would need a prosthetic.

 

When he looked up, he recognized the street.

 

“Uh, hey,” He rapped on the darkened window separating him from the driver and it slid open.

 

“What can I do for you?” The driver asked.

 

“Um, yeah, you can let me out on this corner, it’s fine.”

 

“You sure?”

 

“Yeah, I know my way.”

 

“Alright.”  The driver pulled over and Dallon pocketed the check.

 

“Thanks,” He leaned over and the driver gave him a two finger salute before pulling back into the lazy traffic meandering its way through town.

 

He breathed in the night air, or, dusk air, dry and warm from the desert.

 

Across the street, the neon sign of Dancing Queens flickered on.

 

Dallon entered behind a group of boys in overly embellished v-neck shirts. One was fingering his ID and Dallon grinned, at least there was one constant he could still rely on, crappily made fake IDs and the people that used them.

 

The bouncer that stopped the boys recognized Dallon through the fold and let him through with a wave of his fingers and the group stared ruefully after as they were stripped of their fake twenty-one-year-old status one at a time. Elisa was serving drinks as he entered and she waved when she saw him.

 

“What are you doing here?” She asked with a smile.

 

“I’m…” He gave her an apologetic smile, “Do you know-”

 

“Where Breezy is?” She tilted her head in understanding, “She’s in the dressing rooms, you can probably go see her if Zack isn’t there.” Zack was the girl's’ bodyguard, he was friendly, but scary good at his job.

 

“Let’s hope!” Elisa gave him a warm smile. He nodded and made his way to an employees-only door past the bar and in a turn of good luck- a thought Dallon got rid of immediately- Zack wasn’t there. Most likely on a smoke break.

 

He knocked on the door labeled: Dressing Room.

 

“Who is it?” Called a muffled voice from inside.

 

“It’s Dallon!” He near shouted back, “Can I… Can I come in?” A space of cold silence, then the door clicked open. Claire looked him up and down.

 

“She’s in there,” She tilted her head, “She’ll be glad you’re here, she’s so stressed over everything, I told her to call in sick but she won’t listen.” Dallon nodded, Breezy was a workaholic, she had told him herself, she needed to be doing something. “Anyway, I was trying to calm her down by going over the numbers, but that’s not really the most relaxing thing when bills are the only thing you can think about.”

 

“Is it okay if I…” Dallon gestured past her.

 

“Come in,” Alessia smiled, “My slot is coming up soon anyway.” She let him pass.

 

The ceiling in the dressing rooms was low for Dallon, and he felt like he needed to be tilting his head as he entered. The only light came from the warm glow of the vanity mirrors that reflected on the gold and sparkly bits of clothes that hung from every railing and hanger in the long room.

 

Breezy sat glumly in front of a mirror labeled with her name in a looping, fancy script. Makeup was put off to the side in a messy pile of powder and mascara so high it could have been on the map as a landmark. “Hey,” She said.

 

“Hey,” He answered, making his way over, he pulled a chair closer to her and sat, copying her position on the counter. A fist holding up his head. Breezy sighed.

 

“What are you doing here?” She asked, then shook her head, “I mean… you know.” She straightened to glance at herself in the mirror, “I look so bad, you should come back later.” She flashed him a small smile.

 

“Nah, you always look great,” Dallon mumbled. Breezy huffed out a laugh then buried her head in her hands.

 

“Fuck.” She said, her voice muffled. Dallon sat back in his chair.

 

“Yeah,” He agreed and looked up at the dark plaster ceiling, “So is it… Is it bad?”

 

“Not as bad as it could be.” Breezy said, “But yeah, it’s bad.” Dallon hummed. “Alessia wants to help me with everything, god knows she’s better at that type of stuff than me… But I just,” She looked at him and squeezed her hands between her thighs, “I don’t know what else to do.” The check in his pocket burned at his hip.

 

He used to be Mormon.

 

Back when his dad was actually alive, he would go to church and talk about what he would do on his mission. He was so excited to turn nineteen and travel and talk about something he was sure he was passionate about.

 

He wasn’t anymore, _why are you thinking about this now?_

 

He took the check out of his pocket and set it on the counter. Its corners were curling from the stress he had put on it. “I wanted you to have this.” He said.

 

_$5,000~_

 

Breezy giggled through her light tears, “A check Dallon! You’re so-”

 

Her smile faded as she focused on the paper.

 

“I…” She looked at him, then down at the check, “Dallon, you can’t, you… You won this.” She was crying for a different reason now, shaking her head.

 

“I didn’t, not really-” She hugged him, tangling her fingers in his hair, and he slowly put his hands on her back.

 

“I can’t.” She said.

 

“I want you to.” He told her, “You need it, I don’t.”

 

They stared at each other for a while and he wasn’t sure if he should go, or stare at her some more. “You can call the bank or… however it works and transfer it over to your account, okay?” He heard himself saying all of this without registering that he was the one actually saying it.

 

This time, Breezy shook her head, “It’s a lot of money, Dallon.”

 

He nodded, “Yeah,” He kept nodding, “It is.”

 

Breezy handed it back to him, “Take it back.” She stood, she was crying, “I… Dallon, just… _Take it back_.”

 

She shoved the check at him, he didn’t understand, he didn’t think he was supposed to.

 

“God I…” She looked up at him, “I don’t know, I have to go…” She wiped her eyes. He looked down at the crumpled check in his hand.

 

Dallon regretted everything he had ever done in his life, suddenly.

 

Quietly, at the door, she said, “Call me, okay?” She slammed the door behind her and he breathed a heavy sigh, out of relief and something else.

 

He left the check, hesitantly, next to her blush.

 

He left Dancing Queens feeling weird.

 

The moon was a sliver, near nothing, in the sky, and the smokers from a few other clubs had come out to send whispering breaths upward and away from the earth, Dallon thought they made everything stink.

 

A block past the neon lights and four blocks away from his apartment, he was pushed into an alley by a force strong enough to have him coughing for air, there was a chuckle. “Put those fists up, c’mon!” The voice laughed. Dallon wheezed.

 

“Listen, man, I got like,” Dallon coughed, “Like ten bucks on me right now-”

 

He was suddenly pressed against the wall by inhuman strength.

 

“Shut up,” The voice laughed again and Dallon, through his labored breathing, could recognize the face, one of Ronnie’s goons. “I don’t care about your dirty money.”

 

Dallon struggled, hands were tight around his neck.

 

The goon licked his lips and smiled, his teeth-

 

Dallon decided he was done avoiding it, as he was suffocating in a back alley, he was going to die accepting the truth.

 

His teeth, sharp, poking at his lower lip and shining in the dim light, were like something out of a cartoon. His thick eyebrows only served to sell the image. “I don’t get why Ronnie likes to play with his food, but me?”

 

Dallon rolled his eyes in spite of himself. The goon laughed, “I like to just take what I want, and whatever is in your blood that’s honestly smelling _great_ right now, I want it.” Dallon, while also feeling violated emotionally, struggled against the man’s vice-like grip, writhing against the brick wall of the alley and trying to yell for help. The goon clamped his mouth shut, softly shushing him and then Dallon seizes, unable to move.

 

He’s shaking, struggling to breathe as the man’s teeth pierce his neck, his blood his thick and stains his clothes and runs down his shoulder, dripping off his fingers. He’s shivering, even though he’s not cold, and he _can’t move._

 

It was like he was paralyzed.

 

His brain acted against him as he tried to kick, scream, punch, even writhe, it was getting harder to breathe and the only sort of noise he could make was a periodic squeak of terror at the back of his throat until-

 

The, and fucking who cares anymore, the vampire reeled back, breathing heavy,  _“It burns,”_ He gasps, he’s smiling but shaking, “Why does it _burn?”_

 

Dallon clutches his bleeding neck, struggling to stay awake as he vampire leans back in. “N-” Dallon gasps, _“No-”_

 

The vampire laughed, then choked as he was pulled back, violently by the back of his collar. “Good to see you, Ron!” A voice called as the vampire coughed. “Having some trouble?”

 

It was Sisky.

 

“You fucker! I’m having dinner!” Ron the Ugly Vampire said.

 

“Wouldn’t it be breakfast at this hour for you?” Sisky was wavering, he was worried about Dallon, or at least he hoped so. There was a scuffle Dallon could barely make out with his blurred vision. Sisky and Ron traded blows until Ron ended on the ground pleading:

 

“I’m not the one you should kill! Kill-” He scrambled, “Kill him! Kill him! He’s the one with burning blood! I’m an innocent-!”

Dallon flinched as Sisky drove a stake through his heart.

 

“Hey-” Sisky reached for him and Dallon tried to get away, “No! No, Dallon I can help-!”

 

“You-!”

 

“I know, I know but I can help you, Dallon, I can help,” Sisky softened, “He’ll be gone by morning, he’ll burn up in the sun, but I can help you, now.”

 

After a silence lasting decades, Dallon took Sisky’s hand, “It’s okay, Dallon, you’re gonna be fine, okay?… Let’s get you home.”

 

* * *

 

 

_Private Board; 7 members; 2 Present._

 

_Spells Inquiry_

 

_7:35 pm_

 

 _Never-Shout-Never (Ian)_ _writes:_

 _[to:_ [ _GreenWitch1967 (Ryan)_ ](https://greenwitch1967.tumblr.com/) _]_

 

_dude!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! i think i found something u might like!!!! 4 that spell??_

_found it in my moms shit XD LOL i should just look there whenever u_

_guys have Qs!!!_

 

[ _GreenWitch1967 (Ryan)_ ](https://greenwitch1967.tumblr.com/) _replies:_

 _[to_ _Never-Shout-Never (Ian)_ _]_

 

_cool!!!!!!! I don’t think Gam's books would have stuff like wat I’m_

_asking 4! So thnx! :):):):) <3 Does it have any weird crap tho????? _

_Like last time that spell you gave me made my skin turn all purple? >:( _

 

 _Never-Shout-Never (Ian)_ _replies:_

 _[to_ [ _GreenWitch1967 (Ryan)_ ](https://greenwitch1967.tumblr.com/) _]_

 

_OMG!!!!! XD but no this 1 came from her old books and not from a_

_pamphlet!! X3 XD it’s that defense spell from a chapter for ~Blood Magic_

_I put it up and typed it!! I’ll link it here →_ _Good Luck!!!! :3_

 

 

  * ****Private messages in an online witches forum, frequented by Ryan Ross, Las Vegas, Nevada.****



 

 

* * *

 

 

Once again, he found himself in Ryan’s apartment.

 

This time he had entered conscious, but the blood that had recently begun to leak out of his neck made him woozy and uncertain. Sisky’s calm voice occupied every corner of his awareness, steering him through doors and up the stairs, muttering to him the entire time.

 

_“You’re gonna be fine, don’t worry, you’re not gonna be turned, I can fix this, you’re okay, you’re gonna be fine-”_

 

Ryan contrasted this heavily.

 

“Oh my god! Oh my god! This is even worse than the last time! He’s gonna die! Isn’t he!? Oh god, oh god, he’s covered in blood! He’s gonna… He was _what?!_ Oh god, oh god-”

 

He had taken to pacing again, sitting down in the wicker chair with a huff and periodically spring back to his feet as if he had had an Einstein-like revelation, but would simply begin to pace again. Sisky had taken more ink, the kind he had used only a day ago, and drew another symbol on Dallon’s neck that made him feel buzzed. There were gauze and bandages with more symbols as Dallon swayed in his seat and every once in a while, Ryan would ask the same question:

 

“I don’t understand, I can heal him, even faster than you maybe, you said I was good so why can’t I help?”

 

“Like I said the dozens of other times, this is different, you didn’t see what I saw, I don’t want magic anywhere near this until I figure out what happened.”

 

After a while, Dallon finally realized what had happened.

 

“Where’s your bathroom?” He whispered hoarsely, the first words he had uttered since he had been attacked. Ryan immediately came to his aide as Sisky protested.

 

The toilet was a welcome sight and Ryan barely had time to say: “Make yourself at home.” before he was emptying his guts into the bowl. Blood, his lunch from earlier, and other digested material left him gasping and Ryan choked back his own vomit as he lit an incense candle. Sisky took a break from covering Dallon in symbols to make tea, leaving Dallon to simply shiver on Ryan’s cushy sofa, curled up under an afghan blanket.

 

He could hear them talking in the kitchen.

 

“So…” Ryan sounded more timid now, “You’re… you’re sure that he won’t… you know-”

 

“Turn?” Sisky interjected, “Yeah, I’m sure… he’ll be fine, I mean…” He sighed heavily, “The process to turn someone is much different, and I doubt that my old friend Ron would’ve had the patience for it.”

 

Ryan was silent for a long time and Dallon wondered if he had maybe just left, until he said: “Why won’t you let me use magic to heal him?”

 

Sisky let out a long-suffering sigh that made it obvious he was rubbing the tired from his face. “Some bullshit is going down,” He said, “I mean, obviously, the kind that will give me actual paperwork kind of bullshit. People are disappearing and coming back turned, blood banks are getting harder to deal from, and now, they’re targeting people… I heard from the New York chapter-”

 

“Of… vampire hunters?” Ryan asked.

 

“Yeah, crazy right? But I heard from them that people are getting targeted, random people getting sucked dry in the dead of the night.” Sisky paused, “Dallon being one of those people now.”

 

“What does that have to do with magic?”

 

“Because of what Ron said tonight, he said Dallon’s blood _burned_ … Which makes no sense, but if Dallon’s blood was the reason he was attacked-”

 

“I think if a vampire attacks anybody, it’s because of their blood, Adam.”

 

“...Fuck off… Anyway, this could be a lead, Ryan! People with… Well, _whatever_ in their blood! But the way I saw it affect Ron… It practically made his skin bubble but he couldn’t stop drinking-”

 

“And you’re afraid this had something to do with my spells?”

 

“All the reports I’ve gotten from the random killings, and there’s only a few, since barely any of the vampires have been caught, have been totally fine except for burnt gums…” He thought for a minute and Dallon realized he was breathing heavy, not from exhaustion, but from fear. “They heal quick, like all vamps do, but it’s slow, it takes a few days, and it doesn’t burn the skin like I saw with Ron… I think that the healing you did on Dallon made the reaction stronger.”

 

“And what if you’re wrong?” Ryan sounded flustered, “That sounds… that sounds circumstantial! And just barely!”

 

“I’m trying all my options here, Ryan,” Sisky bargained, “Obviously every theory isn’t gonna be sound!”

 

Dallon felt disgusting, his stomach churned and he broke out in sweat. The wound on his neck throbbed and ached with every turn of his head.

 

He stood up anyway.

 

Swaying as he went, the afghan pulled over his shoulders, he entered the kitchen.

 

They stared at him.

 

“I can hear you talking about me.” He said, Ryan quickly smiled.

 

“You look like death.” He said, Dallon cocked his head at him with a sarcastic look.

 

“Your bandages are bleeding through,” Sisky approaches, “Let me-” Dallon steps back and almost falls on his ass.

 

“Don’t touch me.” He says and is surprised at himself, “That stuff, you were saying, what did it mean.” It was said as more of an order than a question. Sisky deflated.

 

“It meant exactly what it sounded like, Dallon, I already told you-”

 

“I don’t care about that part,” Dallon shook his head, “I got what was coming to me, Ryan’s a Witch, vampires exist, but the other part? About my _blood?_ _Burning that guy’s face off?_ What the fuck-”

 

“It didn’t-” Sisky rubbed his face again and muttered: _Sightless,_ under his breath, “I don’t know _why_ it does that _Dallon_ , _se la vie,_ ” He gestured wildly, “But if I can prevent it from happening again, I will.”

 

Dallon ran through eleven different thought processes at once until he said: “I have a fight with Ronnie in a few days, so.”

 

Sisky spluttered out a random string of curses (some even in Latin, but Dallon didn’t know how he knew that) and gave Dallon a look of such extreme annoyance he could put Ryan to shame. “Are you actually-!” He gestured wildly, “When was this agreed on?!”

 

“Earlier,” Dallon blinked slowly, “With Mr. Iero.”

 

“Mr.-” Sisky looked back and forth between Dallon and Ryan, “I can’t believe you- and after everything you-”

 

“He showed up at my meeting,” Dallon said, “I couldn’t just not shake his hand in front of _The Man_ , I didn’t believe you then.”

 

“Well believing _now_ , isn’t gonna help you!” Sisky yelled and Ryan shushed him.

 

“The neighbors!”

 

Sisky waved him off, “You can’t fight Ronnie, Dallon, he’ll slaughter _laughter_ you, and I mean literally slaughter, you heard Ron right? He’s targeting _you_ specifically.”

 

“Or maybe,” Dallon had to lean against the wall, he could feel the blood on his neck again, “Maybe, he saw my fight with Bob, and he wants fight me, for real.” He didn’t get why he was being so defensive about it, but something in his head was angry about it, angry that now he had started to become a key fighter, one worthy of seeing The Man, and now, he was being shut down.

 

Angry that Sisky, not Ryan, was the cause of his worries about things any normal human being shouldn’t be worried about, and not to mention he didn’t know if Breezy hated him now or what.

 

“I want to do this fight, Sisky.” He said.

 

Sisky said nothing, only staring at him and his bandages. “Ryan,” He said, “Redress the bandages, I’m gonna fix this.” He stomped past Dallon and slammed the door behind him, rattling a few pictures hanging from the walls. Ryan winced, then looked up at Dallon.

 

“Uh, here,” He took Dallon’s arm softly, watching for any complaints as he swayed where he stood, and led him back to the couch, “I can… I guess I can do this.” He looked to the symbol-marked bandages and medical tape. Dallon didn’t protest as he unwrapped the ones on his neck to change them but flinched whenever Ryan made a wrong adjustment, causing Ryan to break out in a string of apologies that Dallon sat through every single time with a quiet indignance.

 

It faded when Ryan mentioned, “It’s healing, really slow, but it’s healing.”

 

For a while after, they sat in the near dark and watched reality cooking shows on Ryan’s TV, but the sound was low, the both of them absorbed into separate but related thoughts.

 

Dallon watched a woman whisk together ingredients into a bowl and talk about her struggles as a child of seven before saying: “So, you’re a witch.”

 

Ryan nodded, his eyes reflecting the TV, “Yep.”

 

Dallon paused to watch a man rush back to an industrial sized oven as he realized his filet mignon or whatever, was burning. “How’d that work out?” Ryan screwed his face into a slightly bemused expression.

 

“I don’t know,” Ryan shrugged, “It just did?”

 

“Like…” Dallon shifted and rolled his eyes at himself, “How did you get into it?”

 

Ryan thought, “I mean… my Grandma introduced me to it, she showed me her herb garden and stuff.” Dallon nodded, watching a man on TV recount his struggles as a cancer survivor turned chef or something equally tragic. “She, uh… She taught me how to do my first couple spells and draw symbols.”

 

Dallon listened as Ryan explained the first spell he had ever cast, a light, easy charm that called a brief summer wind down to stir up the rose bushes and make the yard smell sweet for a few minutes before disappearing. Ryan gushed over every detail and Dallon smiled softly as he talked about crystals and herbs and the work put into every detail, then he asked: “So where’s your Grandma now?”

 

Ryan paused, his hands frozen in midair. Dallon mentally berated himself.

 

“Sorry,” He said and Ryan shook his head quickly.

 

“No, no,” He said, “It’s not like that, it’s just… A couple years ago she went on a trip, to New Orleans, we would call each other all the time or send letters…” He sighed, “We lost contact after a while, but she sent a birthday present, and after that… Nothing, I don’t know where she is.”

 

Dallon muted the TV and let Ryan mull it over for a minute. “I’m… I’m sure she’s just…” Dallon ran through his mental list of consoling words to use in this type of situation.

 

_Sorry? Feel better soon?_

 

That was the full extent of the list.

 

“She’s lost, or something,” Ryan leaned back next to Dallon, “I’m kinda past crying about it.”

 

Dallon hummed, agreeing with him, and turned the volume up, “It’s still pretty interesting, the whole, uh, witch thing.”

 

“Yeah, I mean, it’s more interesting than playing one in World of Warcraft or some bullshit.” Dallon snorted and Ryan smiled.

 

“God that shit is so dumb,” Ryan groaned, “I mostly just go on Myspace.”

 

Dallon smiled through the ache in his head, “I thought you were more of a Livejournal kind of guy.”

 

They sat in a comfortable silence as the winner of the cooking show was announced, it was a guy Dallon thought didn’t deserve it since he had been ‘cooking since he was very little and traveled the world all his life’ like some dick. He was suddenly struck with a thought and turned to Ryan.

 

“Hey,” He said.

 

Ryan said, “Hey.” back.

 

“You should heal me.” Dallon offered.

 

Ryan turned away from the TV, “What?”

 

“I want you to heal me.”

 

“But Adam said-”

 

“I don’t care what Sisky said, I want you to heal me,” Dallon pressed, “I’m the patient right? I should be able to make these decisions.”

 

“I mean I guess,” Ryan tilted his head, “But these are different circumstances, I mean, Sisky knows a lot more than both of us when it comes to all this vampire stuff, and that part about your blood-” He hesitated, “Your blood was burning.”

 

“It’s my blood, maybe I want it to do that.”

 

“I don’t think it works like that.”

 

“Ryan,” Dallon leaned forward, “I’m serious, I want you to heal me, you obviously know you can, and Sisky isn’t like, our boss, or something,” Dallon looked him in the eye, “You cast that, uh… That Bad Luck spell on me without him, and I know you can do this too.”

 

Ryan stared at him with only the light of the TV to guide his eyes, then he smiled, “Yeah, okay, he’s just a friend of the family anyway.” He got to his feet and turned the light on, making Dallon blink away the sting in his pupils. Ryan began rushing back and forth between the kitchen and the living room, grabbing things and murmuring a constant string of thoughts to himself, “I got a few things… I can put together… That can work too… Just to be safe…”

 

At his instructions, Dallon removed his sticky bandages smeared with blood and smeared Sage symbols and washed his neck in the bathroom.

 

His skin was torn and red around the wound, jagged and bleeding through cracks, but the centerpiece was the ragged bite mark that sunk into his neck. There, the blood didn’t seem to clot or scab, like a mosquito bite without an itch. He felt woozy just looking at it, returning to the state he had been in when the vampire-Ron- had bitten down in the alley.

 

Paralysed, gasping for air.

 

He left the bathroom as Ryan lit a candle on a small table in the middle of the room, something was boiling on the stove in the kitchen, making the whole room smell like rosemary.

 

“I’m combining a few different spells,” Ryan blushed.

 

“This is weird,” Dallon said.

 

“I know,” Ryan huffed, “I try not to think about it, especially whenever I have to say things out loud, Gams told me embarrassment can cloud the effect.” He took out a pen and began to draw symbols on his left hand, his blush spread to his ears. Dallon sat across from him at the table.

 

“Uh… okay, I’ll do… Pain relief first?” He looked at Dallon, inquisitive. Dallon shrugged.

 

“Go ahead.”

 

Ryan placed a few more things on the table, a crystal, some lavender, and something that looked suspiciously like church oil.

 

He lit another candle and said, “Close your eyes, for a second? No, wait!” He startled, “I’ll do the blood one first!” Dallon nodded his head with wide eyes as Ryan ran to get the boiling water which he brought back in a bowl.

 

He sat back down, and before Dallon could stop him, Ryan put his hand covered in symbols in the steaming water.

 

Dallon held his breath, looking down at Ryan’s most likely burning hand, Ryan closed his eyes, unbothered, and took a deep breath.

 

When he lifted his hand out, the symbols, originally in the thin blue pen, had bled into his skin, turning black and thick. Ryan muttered under his breath.

 

For a second, nothing happened.

 

The lights flickered, and the flames from the candles rose higher.

 

Ryan reached over to Dallon, putting his hand on the wound, Dallon held himself in place when it stung. Ryan kept muttering, no, chanting, under his breath.

 

The lights flickered and went out.

 

Ryan's hand steamed and the stinging grew worse until Dallon couldn’t bear it any longer, he could barely breath and the steam seemed to fill the room, working it’s way around Dallon and Ryan’s bodies and making them sweat.

 

Dallon bit his lip in pain, making it bleed. He tried pulling away but found himself stuck in place, bound to Ryan’s symboled hand. “Ryan!” He gasped and Ryan ignored him, chanting.

 

The crystal on the table began to glow.

 

Finally, Dallon reached up to grab Ryan’s arm, pulling as hard as he could until-

 

Ryan’s eyes flew open and the lights flickered on, he finished his chant and asked: “Is it stinging? I read it would sting somewhere.”

 

Dallon felt his soul depart his body and dropped Ryan’s arm.

 

“Yeah,” He said, “It stung a little.”

 

“Oh, sorry- Hey! It’s not gushing blood anymore!” Ryan pumped his fist. He was right, the bite was no longer throbbing too, which Dallon was especially thankful for.

 

“So yeah that was great, small question,” Dallon began and Ryan nodded expectantly, “Yeah-What the hell was that!?”

 

“What was what?!”

“Oh, I don’t know, that whole bullshit with the steam and the chanting?!” Dallon gestured wildly, “I thought you were gonna mash up some lavender and-I don’t know!”

“Blood Magic is different than healing!” Ryan defended himself, “It’s a lot… older?”

 

“Whatever, you stopped the blood,” Dallon almost reached up to touch the wound before Ryan stopped him, “What?”

 

“I still have to put other stuff on!” Ryan said, “But uh, not the weird chanty stuff, you know, mash up lavender and light some candles.”

 

“And pray to an old god?” Dallon asked sarcastically, Ryan smiled.

 

“Exactly.”

 

Instead of praying to any old deities, Ryan healed Dallon one pain relief spell at a time, lighting candles carved with words and incense that made them both sneeze. Halfway through, Dallon turned on the TV, his eyes drooping as Law and Order SVU came on.

 

Ryan was still looking for other spells, even as Dallon’s neck was wrapped and bandaged and tingling from all the magic that had just been put into it. It made him sleepy and exhausted Ryan, who was staring blank-faced as Christopher Meloni took down a suspect.

 

Finally, they both fell asleep, Dallon under the afghan on the couch, and Ryan slumped against the small table that Dallon had learned was actually an altar.

 

They had both woken up by noon.

 

Which isn’t really anything new, Dallon was a sleepy piece of crap when he wasn’t preparing for a fight, which he now realized he would have to do.

 

Shit.

 

Ryan, blurry-eyed, somehow made a hard boiled egg for himself and Dallon, it tasted so good, even without salt or anything, that Dallon had to check there wasn’t any weirdly obvious GMOs or something.

 

“What the shit,” Dallon said, “This is the best egg what the fuck.”

Ryan shrugged, “It’s the magic.” Dallon couldn’t tell if he was being serious or not.

 

There was a knock on the door and Ryan stumbled past herbs and melting candles to answer it, looking through the peephole as Dallon changed the channel to Cartoon Network.

 

“Shit,” Ryan spit and opened the door only part of the way, shielding whoever was outside the door from seeing inside the apartment with his shoulders, “Hi, Adam!” Dallon flinched and wide-eyed Ryan who waved a hand at him behind his back.

 

“Is Dallon there?”

 

“He’s in the bathroom, I can take a message?”

 

Dallon didn’t have to see Sisky’s face to guess he knew Ryan was a damned dirty liar, but he responded anyway.

 

“Tell him the fight’s still on, he should skip town and never come back, but if he shows up don’t expect me to save him from his unhealthy coping methods.”

 

“That’s a little harsh,” Dallon couldn’t help speaking up and he had to slap a hand over his mouth. Sisky muttered something under his breath.

 

“Yeah, well, it’s true… and I came back to get my ink.”

 

Ryan nodded, “Oh, sure.” He shut the door before Sisky could push past him, hurriedly pushing aside paper and incense sticks to dig out Sisky’s black symbol ink, he practically shoved it out the door at Sisky.

 

“Thanks, and uh…” Sisky was probably rolling his eyes, “Whatever you don’t want me to see in there-”

 

“Oh, it’s a mess in here,” Ryan said, nodding, “Chip bags, popcorn, it’s gross.”

 

Sisky was probably rolling his eyes harder, “Bye, Ryan, bye Dallon! You idiot…” The last part was muttered, “I’m gonna be back, listen uh… This isn’t going to go well.”

 

“The fight?” Dallon asked, tugging the afghan up his neck to see Sisky, “I know how to fight, Sisky.”

 

Ryan opened the door all the way.

 

“I know you know, Dallon.” Sisky inched the bridge of his nose, “But we’re not talking about a regular fight, we’re not even talking about a fight with Bob, we’re talking about beings with enhanced strength, speed, enhanced _everything_ , they live _forever_ , and on top of that they have to _drink human blood_.”

 

“I’ve seen Dracula, Sisky.” Dallon tried to joke, Sisky didn’t laugh.

 

“This isn’t something I see you walking out alive, Dallon, I’m sorry, I just don’t.” Sisky shook his head, “Next to that you have… _burning blood,_ I don’t-I don’t know what that means, Dallon, _my supervisor_ , doesn’t know what that means.”

 

“I don’t care what it means, Sisky,” Dallon said, “I really don’t.”

 

“Well, you should start,” Sisky snapped, “Because whatever it means, it isn’t anything good, Ronnie is targeting _you_ for that reason, he’s gonna kill you for it.”

 

“Then he’ll win the fight, Adam!” Ryan’s voice was almost shrill, “You can help him-”

 

“A week’s worth of basic training won’t save him from what he’s fighting.” Sisky’s face was wrinkled with worry, “Ronnie didn’t come back for a fistfight, Ryan, he’s here because he has something planned, whether he’s behind it or not is the least of our worries.”

 

“Sisky, I’m listening to you,” Dallon leaned toward him, holding the blanket around his shoulders, “But if I call a fight off-”

 

“I know Dallon,” Sisky interrupted, “I know how you fight…” He sighed heavily for as long as he could and maybe longer, Ryan wrung his hands, twisting the ornamental rings on his fingers.

 

Sisky made like he was going to lean on the edge of the door but hesitated, his loose fist hovering over the cracking white paint of the doorframe. His arm fell to his side, Sisky nodded once, blinked three times, and said, “I’ll… See you later, Dallon.”

 

* * *

 

 

_Dallon I… Elisa is telling me you’re doing another fight…_

_She’s pretty worried. God, I wish I knew why…_

_…_

_…_

_…_

_…_

_Thanks, Dallon._

_Claire is helping me with the numbers._

 

 

  * **_**_Phone call from Breezy Douglas to Dallon Weekes, scrutinized over, Las Vegas, Nevada_**_**



 

 

* * *

 

 

The dream he had a day before the fight didn’t exactly help his nerves, which had been going off uncontrollably most of the week. His neck had healed, but going outside after dark was enough to make his heart pound. He mostly stayed in his apartment to train, digging his old punching bag out from behind the vacuum cleaner and hanging it from the hook in his bedroom.

 

The dream, or nightmare really, started off, as far as he could remember, quite nicely.

 

He was eating dinner. Something nice, it might have been McDonald’s.

 

Breezy and Ryan were there, and so was Mick, dressed like the ringmaster in a circus.

 

He can’t remember what happened next, until Ronnie had crashed onto the table, screaming and writhing where he had landed, blood pouring from his eyes and mouth as he ripped Dallon apart. Everything was on fire, burning his flesh and melting his eyes and then-

 

He had woken up, his heart pounding and breathing heavy.

 

He took it out on the punching bag, which was tearing around the seams and threatening to fall to the floor with every swing.

 

He had visited Ryan many times during the week, he had found that he liked the guy, and his welcoming attitude put Dallon at ease more than a beer and ABC News did. Ryan was incredibly forgiving when it came to Dallon’s emotional rollercoaster of a life and somehow always had tea and flowers to spare.

 

The bouquet of pink, yellow, and white was back on Dallon’s counter, protecting his apartment with a web of magic that flashed briefly whenever he came home.

 

He couldn’t take a bouquet to a fistfight.

 

On that last day, Ryan finally came over to Dallon’s apartment for a change, his quiet knocks on the door went almost unheard with the TV on blasting a B grade sci-fi movie. Then he pounded twice on the door and Dallon jumped to turn the volume down and rush to the door.

 

“Ryan,” He said, “Uh, come in.”

 

Ryan was dressed particularly flowery that day, his paisley scarves and patterned shirts clashed professionally, and his headband was somehow matching with the rings on his fingers. Dallon looked down at his faded skinny jeans and an old short sleeve button up as Ryan entered. He grimaced when he noticed he had buttoned it up unevenly.

 

Ryan looked around at the apartment, which was as undecorated and dusty as the day he had gotten it. He nodded and gestured at the couch.

 

“Yeah go ahead,” Dallon led the way to the couch.

 

“I like your apartment,” Ryan said, “Very minimalist.” He snorted when Dallon gave him a look of disdain.

 

They watched the movie in silence for a few seconds.

 

“So,” Ryan’s voice was halted, “I’ve been… um, It’s this thing for- I wanted Sisky to have it first but now- you know since you have your thing-”

 

“What?” Dallon frowned at the special effects playing on screen.

 

“I found a spell, my friend Ian sent it to me online-” Ryan paused, “It’s like a blood spell, but you drink it, and it makes you kinda- well it’s supposed to- help you move faster and stronger… I figured I could give it to you.”

 

“Dude,” Dallon shifted to look at him, “I’ll take it, I mean, if this is about Sisky not wanting me around magic, we threw that out days ago, if you think you can help me win this fight, I trust you.”

 

Ryan smiled, “Thanks Dallon.”

 

Dallon gave him a small smile in return and turned back to the TV, “So where is it?”

 

“I’m still making it,” Ryan said, “It won’t be ready until tomorrow, you have to take it right before the fight.”

 

“Okay, so give it to me tomorrow-”

 

“No way!” Ryan slashed a hand through the air, “I’ve been working on it for a week, I have to see if it works.”

 

“You can not-”

 

“I’m not letting that thing out of my sight Dallon!” Ryan insisted, “Besides, who knows what could happen, you’ll need my help.”

 

Dallon stared straight ahead, sighed, and said: “Okay.” Ryan smirked, “But you can’t be weird, Mick is gonna pick me up tomorrow and ask you who you’re supposed to be, and you can’t say any weird shit or he’ll kick you out.”

 

“Why would I say anything weird?”

 

Dallon looked at him with a heavy gaze and Ryan nodded.

 

“Okay, yeah, I get it.”

 

This time, it was Ryan’s turn to fall asleep on the couch.

 

It was past midnight when Dallon snapped back to awareness in the middle of _Alien_ to see him leaning back, his mouth hanging open and his scarves askew. Dallon contemplated drawing on his face but realized he couldn’t remember how to spell anything when he was this tired.

 

Much less draw a dick or something.

 

“Huh,” Dallon tiredly licked his lips and sauntered to his own bed.

 

He woke up at nine, his mouth tasting like the bottom of a school bus seat. “Oh,” He rubbed his eyes. _“Oh.”_ He said again.

 

He pulled on some old basketball shorts in preparation.

 

Ryan was in the kitchen, making Dallon clench every muscle in surprise, “Oh my _god_ I forgot you were here.”

 

Ryan’s eyes were dark when he turned to look at him, “Me too,” He turned back to the fridge, “I can’t believe you let me sleep through _Alien_.”

 

“It was past the chestburster part anyway,” Dallon leaned against the counter, “What’s the point after that?” Ryan still seemed slightly miffed.

 

“Do you have anything else to eat besides stale Cheerios?” He asked.

 

“That’s like the only thing I eat,” Dallon responded.

 

Ryan sighed heavily and fixed them both a bowl and they sat on the couch in silence, staring at the blank TV screen. Tired, exhausted, and dreading what was going to happen soon.

 

“Fight today,” Ryan said.

 

“Mm-hm.” Dallon agreed.

 

More silence.

 

“How did you even get into fighting?” Ryan was fighting past more sleep.

 

Dallon shrugged, “Got in a fight once, and my sponsor, Mick, saw it.”

 

“What were you fighting for?” Ryan looked up at him and Dallon struggled to remember.

 

“I think they were trying to rob the place I was working? A hardware store that had drugs out the back.” Dallon could see it clearly now, a man his age had walked in and threatened him, and Mick had come in from the back door to check on the supply of more than likely illegal substances that were being sold out the back. “He came in and I beat him fast, Mick offered me a job that would pay better, so I took it.”

 

Ryan thought for a moment, then asked, “Do you like it? Fighting, I mean.”

 

“Yeah? I guess so, I don’t know,” Dallon didn’t really think there was any real answer to that question.

 

Ryan hummed in response and went back to blurrily staring at the TV. He was almost halfway back to falling back asleep with the Cheerios bowl in his lap when he started back awake. “I’m going to go back and make coffee or something.”

 

“What? Oh,” Dallon watched him stand and put the bowl on the counter, “Bring me back some?”

 

“Maybe,” Ryan waved a hand behind him and left the apartment, leaving Dallon alone with the couch.

 

He took a long shower, as long as possible, as if letting the water run cold would somehow slow the passage of time. Mick would pick him up at the usual time, however, Dallon simply had to sit around and dread it the entire time.

 

He wondered if Sisky would have something planned, or if he would have to rely on Ryan’s magic potion to help him not be killed by a slightly uglier version of Nosferatu, a.k.a.: Ronnie Radke.

 

Ryan coffee tasted like hazelnut and had been left on his kitchen counter while he had been in the shower. Dallon really didn’t feel like asking how he had gotten in without a key, or how the coffee had still been hot and steaming after the amount of time he had been standing under cold water.

 

He was grateful either way.

 

Full House was on while he wrapped up his knuckles. He would miss Full House, he decided, D.J. especially. She was the best character besides Jesse.

 

He felt like he should be dressed in his Sunday best, what better way to attend your own funeral than looking like a spy? He was halfway through rooting through his closet when he realized it was the dumbest thing he had ever done.

 

 _It’s also strange_ , he thought to himself, _that I am completely fine about all of this._

 

He was standing in the middle of his apartment, his hands on his hips and wearing only one shoe.

 

 _Goodbye apartment_ , he thought, _and all your complexities. Goodbye holes I punched in you, goodbye holes that were there when I bought you._

 

“Holy fuck I’m gonna die.” He squeaked. Then put his other shoe on and left to get Ryan.

 

Ryan was ready the second Dallon knocked at his door, his scarves rearranged and his hair settled in loose curls about his face. There was a messenger bag hanging from his shoulder, which he readjusted every few minutes as they made their way down the stairs.

 

“It’s got everything I might need,” He explained, “Crystals, herbs, and a bunch of other stuff, and the thermos I put the uh, spell in.” Listening to him ramble on about spells and bay leaves let Dallon take his mind off his own impending doom for a second. “So listen, you need to drink it a few minutes before the fight, and it’s not gonna taste… _good_ , like, at all.”

 

“How bad?” Dallon asked.

 

“I really don’t know,” Ryan shook his head, “Just, _bad.”_

 

The fancy black car Mick usually came in was parked outside and running. The windows were tinted past the legal limit and Dallon couldn’t see inside. “Just get in after me,” Dallon told Ryan, who nodded and squeezed the messenger bag’s strap against his chest.

 

Dallon opened the door to the back seat and slid inside, “Hey. Mick, I’m bringing-” He stopped as Ryan slid in after, realizing he didn’t recognize the driver.

 

“Hey Dallon,” Sisky twisted around to peer at them from the driver’s seat, “Ryan,” He nodded, “You can’t come.”

 

“Where the hell is Mick?” Dallon asked at the same time Ryan sneered:

 

“I can come if I want!” Sounding all around like a whining teenager.

 

“Mick is busy,” Sisky turned to Dallon, “He can’t come.”

 

“I said he could come,” Dallon realized he sounded exactly like Ryan and coughed, “And what the hell is Mick busy with?”

 

“If I knew that I would-!” Sisky spluttered and turned back to the front. Another voice from the passenger side spoke up.

 

“We’re gonna be late.” The voice turned back as Sisky put the car in drive, “Hey guys!”

 

“Elisa!?” Dallon’s voice went shrill, “Seriously!”

 

“Who are you?” Ryan asked.

 

“Elisa Yao.” Elisa stretched out her arm and Ryan shook her hand, “Sisky’s partner-” Dallon groaned loudly and leaned back in his seat, “-He called me for backup, sorry I didn’t tell you earlier Dallon, I’m kinda backed up with my own assignments but this is definitely more important.”

 

“So you’re a hunter too?” Ryan asked.

 

“Yep,” Elisa smiled proudly, “What’s in the bag?” Ryan tugged it closer.

 

“Nothing.”

 

“Sure,” Elisa tilted her head, “I can detain you for possession of dark magic.”

 

“It’s not Dark Magic!” Ryan sneered.

 

“Then hand it over.” Elisa held out a hand as Sisky turned a corner.

 

Ryan and Dallon looked at each other and had a silent argument that mostly consisted of Dallon thinking he was winning as he yelled with his mind: _Throw it out the window!_

 

Until Ryan handed her the bag and Dallon said: “Dude!”

 

“What’s this?” Elisa took out a blue thermos and shook it in the air, Sisky glanced over at it.

 

“Ryan…” His voice was edged with warning.

 

“What the hell do you think it is!?” Ryan shot back, “Vodka or something?! _Stop-!_ Shaking it like that!” He reached forward to try and rip it from Elisa’s grip and she held it away from him, unscrewing the top and taking a whiff from the inside.

 

 _“Ugh!”_ She coughed and screwed the top back on, “God that smells like… I don’t even know how to describe that.”

 

“Dump it out the window.” Sisky grumbled and Ryan and Dallon shouted: _“No!”_

 

“What’s the spell?” Elisa asked.

 

“It’s gonna help Dallon during the fight,” Ryan spilled, “I got it online from a friend!”

 

Sisky parked the car outside the bar, “From the _internet_ \- What did I say about magic while we try and figure this out?”

 

“It’s gonna work!” Ryan insisted, “I wouldn’t have made it if I thought it wouldn’t help! Do you want Dallon to _die?”_ Sisky paused, then got out of the car, Dallon followed suit along with Ryan and Elisa.

 

Sisky paced, pinching the bridge of his nose and muttering to himself. “No, no of _course not_ , but the _risk_ , I told you, no magic-”

 

“Hate to burst your bubble but we used magic ages ago to heal my neck.” Dallon leaned toward him and he seemed to pace harder.

 

“This is different, Dallon, if its _Blood Magic_ -” He turned to Ryan, “-Is it Blood Magic?” Ryan nodded. “It’s Blood Magic, that’s strong stuff, we don’t know how it’ll affect you, especially your _burning blood_ -”

 

“I’m pushing that to the very back of my priorities, _Sisky_ ,” Dallon interrupted, “You know what’s at the front? Not _dying!_ ” He stretched the last word out for emphasis. Ryan grabbed the thermos away from Elisa and she protested.

 

“Hey!” She huffed, “Listen, we’re causing a scene.”

 

“Well, what are supposed to do?” Sisky asked her, looking less like an experienced Vampire Hunter and more like a desperate survivor begging for a way out. “I can’t-! I can’t keep Dallon alive, I can’t kill all these vampires in front of everyone! I can’ do anything!”

 

Elisa looked at him softly, “Given the circumstances… I know you’re reasoning for the magic and the…” She looked over at Dallon, “The burning, but at times like this we have to take every chance we get and throw precaution out the window in favor of a leg up.”

 

“So…” Dallon looked at Ryan, “I drink the thing?”

 

“Drink the potion, Dallon,” Elisa nodded, “And win the damn fight, or at least come close.”

 

“Give us enough time to separate Ronnie’s group from the rest so we can take them out,” Sisky looked tired, “Ryan, stay near the front and keep an eye on the fight.”

 

“Of course,” Ryan nodded nervously, “Uh… Here, drink.” He thrust the thermos at Dallon who took it in his hands.

 

“A-all at once?” He stuttered.

 

“Yeah,” Ryan urged, “Drink it all fast, but don’t… choke or something.”

 

Dallon opened the thermos and leaned back as the smell hit him in the face. _“Jesus_ , what is in this? A dead skunk?”

 

“A lot of stuff,” Ryan said, “I didn’t know it would smell so bad! I swear!”

 

“Your fight is soon, Dallon, just get it over with.” Sisky held up his watch and Dallon nodded, gulped, and stared down at the thick substance contained within the thermos. It almost looked like a comic book monster he had seen once, an even uglier version of the Toxic Avenger.

 

A bubble popped on its surface, like it was winking at him, or something.

 

“Fuck this,” Dallon said, closing his eyes in defeat and throwing his head back to swallow the sludge that seemed to splatter into his mouth with a disgusting splorp!

 

The few moments he spent in agony trying to swallow the mess seemed to last ten lifetimes. It made his gums numb and his tongue tingle, and there was a vibration that traveled down his arms and legs that made him shake and a burn that settled behind his eyeballs that made him squeeze on the thermos. He threw the thermos to the ground when he was done and stumbled back hacking and coughing for air, Ryan and Sisky caught him before he fell and their faces molded together for a second before separating again.

 

“How do you feel?” Ryan asked.

 

“Shit tastes like gasoline-” Dallon spit back, his voice hoarse as he tried standing on his own.

 

“He’s fine.” Sisky said, “Let’s go.”

 

The walk into the bar and down the stairs let Dallon reorganize himself as best as he could. He still swayed and lurched forward every few steps but even that was disappearing.

 

“Do you feel different at all?” Ryan was asking him. Dallon coughed and wheezed, “My eyes and-” He shook his head, trying to get himself out of the daze the spell had put him in, “Everything is…” He couldn’t put his finger on the right word, “It’s like everything is _moving._ ” He settled his feet on the floor of the basement.

 

“But you can see? Nothing hurts?” Ryan was looking him over suspiciously as they followed Sisky and Elisa who were guiding them over to Charlie in the corner. The crowd had already gathered and were louder than usual, shouting for the fight to start without Levon’s usual announcements.

 

“My eyes hurt, but only a little.” The tingling and the numbness were staying, it seemed, but Dallon could feel his equilibrium returning, stronger than before even, he was suddenly aware of every move Ryan was making, as well as the people around him, “I feel… great, actually.” Ryan was tense, tugging at the crystal necklace under his scarves and fingering the clasp of his messenger bag. Ahead of them, Sisky kept his hands close to his sides, and the same was with Elisa, they both had evened out their strides and kept their eyes level.

 

They were ready for a fight.

 

Dallon realized he was too. His heart beat in anticipation, and his whole body was open and ready, he just had to ignore the strangeness of the numb feeling at the ends of his fingers, the burn behind his eyes, and the uncomfortable shift underneath his skin, like everything, was resetting itself.

 

An uncomfortable thought struck him, _You’re different now, Dallon_ , Sisky had said so many days ago.

 

 _It’s the spell, asshole_ , Dallon shot back.

 

“Dally!” Mick met him with Charlie, “So sorry I couldn’t pick you up! You’re cutting it close though!” He was laughing, and Dallon thought he looked different, like he was hiding something.

 

“Yeah, it’s no problem, but uh, Mick, are you okay? You-”

 

“And who’s this?” Mick turned to Ryan before he could finish.

 

“This is Ryan, I invited him along.” Dallon watched them shake hands.

 

“Alright, listen, I gotta go over and get some business taken care of, Charlie will take care of you right?” Mick waved at Charlie, “Right? Right.” He clapped Dallon on the back robotically, “Have a good fight yeah? Don’t let your old man down!” And before Dallon could protest, he was gone.

 

“Dallon?” Sisky beckoned him over and Dallon met with Charlie.

 

“You holding anything?” Charlie asked him.

 

“You can pat me down.” Dallon offered, still confused, it looked like Charlie, but it wasn’t the same, he was halted and fake sounding and when he was finished Dallon couldn’t get away fast enough.

 

“Hey,” He called Sisky, Elisa, and Ryan over, “Is everyone really weird? Or is it just me?”

 

“Definitely just you,” Ryan tried joking but his nerves overcame his sarcasm.

 

“I noticed it too,” Elisa nodded, “Everyone seems very under control and mechanical.”

 

“We might have a hypnotist in Ronnie’s group,” Sisky said, “They might be controlling the crowd, we have to be careful.”

 

“What do you mean? Hypnotist?” Ryan asked.

 

“Midwestern vampires and Northeastern especially, have hypnotism-like abilities,” Elisa answered, “They can control a person to do anything they want, but bigger crowds are harder, they can only respond to basic orders, so we have to watch out, we don’t know what those orders are.”

 

“Orders like starting the fight early?” Dallon asked, his height let him see over the heads of most of the crowd, “Levon’s going out already.”

 

“What?!” Sisky whirled around, “Your fights not supposed to start, we have ten minutes to go!”

 

Levon had begun his announcements, his smile too big and fake for it to really be him. “Ladies, Gentlemen!” He began, “This is an exciting night!” Out of habit, Dallon started forward, Ryan at his heels. Sisky and Elisa got their shit together quick and made for the crowd, ready to enact, or at least try to enact their plan.

 

“This guy is a longtime champion of Las Vegas! He’s back, and supposedly stronger than ever, here to repay his debt to his patron!”

 

“What?!” Ryan asked, bewildered.

 

“It’s Ronnie Radke!” Levon motioned to the man as he entered the Box, all tattoos and sharp teeth as he bathed in the crowd’s fake admiration.

 

“And over here!” Levon began again, “A fan favorite! The slime and filth that will wipe our floors tonight! His blood wall splatter these walls and be feasted upon!”

 

“Jesus Christ, overkill, right?” Dallon tried shooting Ryan a confident smile, but it came out as more of a grimace.

 

“It’s Dallon Weekes!”

 

They entered the crowd as Levon finished and were instantly tugged forward, jostled and poked at mercilessly, the crawling under Dallon’s skin increased and the numb feeling made him squirm, with everything so enhanced the noise was becoming too much.

 

“Come on,” Ryan poked him, “You stopped.” His voice urged Dallon forward to the gate into The Box.

 

He was finally pulled in by Levon, his nails squeezing into Dallon’s arm and Ryan was pushed against the chain link fence, his fingers wrapped around the links, anxious.

 

The handshake was a custom, and even hypnotized, Levon enforced it. Ronnie and Dallon were pushed close together. Ronnie bared his teeth in a faded yellow grin, Dallon decided he wouldn’t look away this time.

 

“Let’s just get this over with quick,” He said, defiant, and Ronnie looked pleased.

 

“Oh, I plan to.”

 

“And paint the walls with my blood no doubt.”

 

“Gotta love a fast learner.”

 

They shook hands and leaped away from each other, throwing up their fists in defense and almost dancing around The Box in a wide circle. Ronnie, unlike Bob, was close to Dallon in height, which had its own set of challenges.

 

That, and the fact that Dallon was absolutely terrified.

 

The crowd was too loud, Ronnie was too fast, and the twisting, ugly feeling under his skin made him shiver.

 

Dallon hurried forward, going for a shot that would hopefully put Ronnie of balance, but he dodged faster than Dallon could process and went for a jab to Dallon’s ribcage. He blocked and spun away but Ronnie was right there every time. “You can’t run away!” Ronnie taunted, “I’m faster than any human could be, and you’re just delaying the inevitable!”

 

“Dallon!” Ryan was yelling, Dallon ignored it and went for another punch, this time aiming for Ronnie’s stomach. He barely made contact and Ronnie was gone, behind him, Dallon stumbled away as fast as he could and the spell was back, letting him see everything. As fast as he could Dallon reached around and grabbed Ronnie’s arm and twisted, they both fell to the ground and Dallon finally landed a blow that felt true.

 

Ronnie spluttered and kicked him away like a ragdoll, “I thought I smelled _magic,”_ he snarled, his teeth glowing under the floodlights, the crowd seemed to disappear as they circled each other again. “What will they think of you? _Cheating_.” Dallon stayed quiet, listening to the sound of his own breathing.

 

He could see everything, from the twitch of Ronnie’s fists to his lips parting in anger, revealing his large canines, poised to tear into Dallon’s already scarred neck.

 

They scuffled again, quick jabs and well-timed hits that left them both breathless, on and off, on and off, they would pull away, breathe, and be back again.

 

The shift under his skin turned into a knotting, twisted, pulling, agonizing sensation. It didn’t hurt, but Dallon could barely stand it. His mouth was numb, his eyes were burning, he couldn’t feel his fingers. But the fight went on. The crowd screaming, yelling, louder and louder and louder until-

 

Ronnie finally screamed as he leaped onto Dallon, his eyes lit up with an almost animalistic fire, the crowd fell silent, unmoving and staring and Ronnie and Dallon twisted and wrestled on the floor. Ryan tried to yell but he was grabbed from behind and his mouth was covered by hand from the silent crowd.

 

Dallon struggled against Ronnie, grunting with effort against the numbness in his limbs and Ronnie’s vampiric strength holding him tight against the floor. His eyes burned and his vision blurred and Ronnie hissed through his teeth and scratched at Dallon’s skin, begging for a taste of his blood that was already flowing from his nose and the cuts on his face.

 

There was a scuffle, outside the box, Elisa and Sisky had begun to draw the other vampires out, away from the crowd. One yelled and hissed in anger and the crowd went wild again, screaming and shouting not in excitement, but in anger, fighting each other and jumping to attack everything they saw. Ryan was pushed against the fence trying to avoid getting mauled and Ronnie took Dallon’s momentary distraction to wrap his hands around Dallon’s throat, pulling him upward and slamming the back of his head back down on the hard wooden floor.

 

Dallon’s ears rang with a high pitched scream and his head spun, he tasted blood and his arms and legs seized and shook as he tried to move. Ronnie’s glowing smile shone through his blurring eyesight and he finally struck, biting down at the start of Dallon’s shoulder as hard as he could.

 

A scream ripped it’s way from between his lips and Ronnie leaned back, his face smoking where Dallon’s blood had touched it. “Dallon!” Ryan yelled, “Dallon!”

 

The twisting and shifting under his skin finally released as Ronnie leaned back down, pushing out of Dallon’s burning eyes and tingling fingers. The fence around The Box shook and groaned as the crowd pressed in from all sides, yelling in fury for blood and death. Ryan was at the front yelling and screaming: “Let him go! Let him go!”

 

Ronnie reeled back when the burn became too much, making his skin melt and bubble and Ryan screamed: _“Let him go!”_

 

Then, four things happened at once.

 

The first was The Box collapsing around them, letting the crowd form fully into a screaming mob determined to tear itself apart in false rage.

 

The second was the burst of blue light that came from Ryan’s necklace as he yelled in terror.

 

The third was Dallon found himself able to see, but unable to move except to writhe in pain thinking: _The spell went wrong, it all went wrong, something is wrong-_

 

The fourth was the butterflies.

 

Hundreds of white pine butterflies that appeared from nothing behind Ryan that gathered in a cloud of fluttering intricate wings. For a moment they stayed in the air above the crowd and haloed Ryan. A wash of calm overlooking a bloody scene.

 

Then they entered the crowd, swarming over the most violent in the crowd and settling around Dallon as he slipped in a pool of his own blood.

 

Ryan appeared over him, surrounded by butterflies, his eyes wide and questioning, but instead of asking any, he said: “Come on, Dallon, we have to get out, we have to go!”

 

Dallon gasped as Ryan tried pulling him over his shoulder, “You-”

 

“I know, I don’t know-” Ryan grunted trying to hoist Dallon to his feet, “I- You’re- What’s happening to you?” Dallon was going to try and ask what he meant when his knees buckled, Ryan struggled to keep him upright as they tried pushing through the crowd that tried to grab onto them, butterflies crowding their faces and obstructing their vision.

 

Elisa found her way to them, stopping for a split second when she saw Dallon and then rushing forward to help them. “We have to get up the stairs!”

 

“What’s happening to him!?” Ryan shouted back, his question went unanswered and Dallon was desperate to know the answer.

 

What _was_ happening to him?

 

He could barely move, save for shaking, he could still barely see, and worst of all, everything hurt. Not just the tear in his shoulder, but _everything_.

 

The stairs were agonizing, each step sent stabbing blades up his legs and Ryan and Elisa basically pulled him up by his shoulders. Dallon whimpered against his will in pain and Elisa would whisper, “I know, I know, sweetheart, I swear it’ll be over soon.”

 

They reached the top and Dallon fell from their grip, tumbling to the ground and curling in on himself. He couldn’t tell if he was crying or if his eyes were bleeding. Ryan was close to tears as well, gasping for breath and kneeling over him, “I-I don’t know what to do, if it was the spell or-”

 

“Ryan, I need you to calm down okay? This isn’t your fault he’s-” Elisa stopped, trying to recollect her thoughts.

 

“You know what’s going on?” Ryan asked, wide-eyed.

 

“I should have guessed sooner, I don’t have time to explain, Sisky’s down there!” Elisa rushed and grabbed a pen from behind the bar, “Go to this address, take the car outside, they can help you-”

 

“What about Dallon!?” Ryan sounded desperate.

 

“I‘m sorry, I’m so sorry, this isn’t something magic can fix-”

 

Dallon moaned, partly in fear and partly in pain, and Elisa wiped tears from her face, “I promise you, it’s-” There was a resurgence of screaming from down the stairs and Elisa gasped, “Go! Go! I have to help Sisky with-!” She was gone too fast to finish her sentence and for a moment Ryan only stared after her.

 

Dallon sucked in a heaving breath and Ryan sprang back into action clutching a crumpled napkin in his hand. “Let’s go, just a bit farther-” Dallon limped across the wood floor, spilling blood on Ryan’s clothes and shaking with effort. His hair was plastered to his face with sweat as they reached the door.

 

For a second, Dallon could see his own reflection in the window and he couldn’t process what he saw. He didn’t have time too as Ryan pushed him to the car, letting him fall against the driver’s door as he opened the back.

 

He smeared blood on the windshield and fell into the back seat when Ryan helped him in, breathing heavy and covered in blood. He was shivering, but for a different reason than Dallon. “Okay, okay,” Ryan’s hands shook as he tried to start the car, trying, failing, trying, trying.

 

* * *

 

 

_Hello!_

 

_I was recently made aware of your abilities,_

_and the fact you have had multiple consulting_

_jobs with the Guild before. So I was hoping to_

_maybe make an appointment with you and_

_hopefully touch base on the recent problems_

_I’ve been having? It’s simply vampiric in subject,_

_nothing major._

 

_Hope to open a correspondence!_

_-Elisa Yao, Vampire Hunter, First Class, Las Vegas Chapter_

 

_Reply sent @ 3:17 am:_

 

_Sounds cool hmu w/ deets_

 

 

  * **_**_Emails exchanged between Elisa Yao and an unknown consult, scoffed at, Las Vegas Nevada_**_**



 

 

* * *

 

 

When he woke up, there was no pain.

 

He could breathe, he was clean, his shoulder ached.

 

He felt hungover.

 

But there was no pain.

 

He wanted to shout, he’s okay, he’s back in his apartment, Alex was there and they’d done acid together and fuck Dallon just had the worst trip in ages.

 

Then he opened his eyes.

 

Not his apartment greeted him, so did Not his couch and Not his computer chair.

 

“Fuck you,” He told them, and coughed, his voice sounded muffled and far away, like his mouth was filled with rocks, he coughed again. Outside, he could hear the soft murmur of conversation that quickly stopped when coughed more and more, his voice still sounding strange and rasping.

 

“Hey!” Ryan burst into the room, “You’re awake! Here,” He passed Dallon some water as he tried to sit up on the couch, “Here, you’re gonna uh…” Ryan trailed off for a moment, staring at Dallon, “Kenny needs you to be quiet-”

 

“I can barely _talk-_ ” Dallon stopped when Ryan leaned back, flinching at the sound of his voice, which still sounded like it was coming from far away. He lowered his voice as best he could, “Who’s Kenny?”

 

Ryan frowned, “He says he’s a consult for the _Guild,_ or something…” Ryan would n’t look him in the eye, “He works with hunters.”

 

“With Sisky-?” His mouth had begun to hurt and he clamped it shut, groaning, Ryan glanced up at him and nodded. So Dallon spoke through his fingers as he covered his mouth in pain, “Why won’t you look at me?”

 

Ryan picked at his fingernails, “It’s kinda hard to explain-”

 

“Actually it’s kinda easy.” Said a voice from the door, and Dallon whipped around to face who he guessed was Kenny.

 

He was short and stocky, with a babyface and hair that stuck up in every direction, and his voice was high and weirdly melodic. “Kenny,” He introduced himself and leaned against the doorframe, “And I said it’s easy to explain, it’s just a little hard to process.”

 

“What?” Dallon asked and Kenny flinched.

 

“Man, you gotta stop doing that.”

 

 _“Doing what?”_ Dallon asked, trying his best to ignore his aching gums and Kenny sighed, squeezing his eyes shut, and Dallon heard it.

 

His voice had echoed through the room unnaturally, first at the back of his mind, reverberating low, then at the very front, loud and demanding. Then normally, as far as Dallon had noticed, but for Kenny and Ryan, it seemed like a gun had been shot as close to their faces as it could get, because whenever he spoke, they flinched and rubbed at their ears.

 

Dallon snapped his mouth shut then mumbled, “Oh… What-” He lowered his voice to a whisper and stared down at his bruised fingers, wrapped in bandages.

 

“Just talk as quietly as you can,” Kenny spoke gently, “And tell me what you remember from last night.”

 

Dallon looked up at Ryan, who nodded with worried eyes.

 

“Um…” Dallon tried to think through the noise in his head, the unnatural way his voice floated around the room, and the ache in his teeth, “The fight… and Ronnie, he bit me, and…” He frowned and looked to Ryan, “You did that thing, with the butterflies?” Ryan smiled and blushed, Dallon nodded, “That was so cool! How-”

 

“I don’t know,” Ryan shook his head, smiling wide, “It just-” He finished his sentence with a wild gesture in the air.

 

Kenny huffed out a laugh, “Tell me how you felt after you got bitten, you did a spell right?”

 

“Uh, yeah…” Dallon turned back to him, “And then after that… It felt like there was this… _Something_ , under my skin and my eyes, burned-”

 

Kenny was nodding, “Okay, listen, you’re not gonna like this, but you need to look in the mirror, then I can… I can give you answers, as much as I know, I swear.”

 

Dallon looked to Ryan, who said, “You need to see.”

 

“Is it… Is it why my voice is-?” Dallon touched his throat and Kenny nodded sheepishly. Ryan helped him stand, his legs shaking as they made their way across the hall to Kenny’s small bathroom.

 

Then he leaned on the vanity, looking down the drain in the sink and at the cheap orange soap next to the faucet. He looked at Ryan and Kenny in the doorway, then up at himself in the mirror.

 

He focused on the things he recognized.

 

He was beaten up, bruised, cut, swollen in places, band-aids littered his forehead and his hair was wild and unkempt. He looked okay.

 

He focused on the parts that scared him.

 

He was paler, his hair was darker, and his bruises were a dark purple and blue that wasn’t normal by any medical standards, and his teeth were something out of his nightmares. His canines were scarily similar to Ronnie’s.

 

His eyes were the worst.

 

They were completely white, save for the barely distinguishable gray circles were his irises and pupils used to be.

 

Dallon honestly wasn’t sure how to feel anymore.

 

So far, he’d had his ribs broken and healed in a night, been assaulted in an alleyway by a vampire, learned his friend was a hunter of said vampires, been attacked _again_ and this- he squeezed the edge of the vanity- _this?_

 

“Uh,” He nodded sharply, “Okay.” His voice was doing the thing again and forced it to stop, amazingly, it obeyed, “Okay!” He turned to Kenny, “What the fuck!”

 

His temper was never a welcome guest, but at this moment it was a familiar pang that Dallon allowed in spite of the bullshit that was happening without his strict permission.

 

 _“What the fuck!”_ He repeated, Ryan seemed taken aback, not expecting this reaction, and Kenny was raising his palms into the air.

 

“Just calm down, Dallon I can-”

 

Dallon went blind for a second and the mirror cracked and chipped with his fury, Kenny and Ryan stepped back in unison and Kenny continued, “Well now I have to get a new mirror, thanks.”

 

Dallon looked down at his fist, his knuckles were red and bleeding in places. He thought nostalgically of his own apartment.

 

There was smoke, or fog, or whatever coming from his closed fist, which made Dallon think even more nostalgically of the fire he had seen on the news a few days ago, if only he worked in an office building, he could have died in that fire and not be here.

 

Kenny and Ryan watched the fog dissipate into the air with a quiet wonder when Dallon unclenched his fingers. “Again,” He said, “What the fuck?” This time, his voice was shaking, “Was… Was it because I was bitten or-?”

 

“No,” Kenny stopped him, “And it’s not the spell either, I promise, this-” He gestured to Dallon, “-It would have happened anyway, from what Ryan told me, it was already happening, right? Your blood? You can heal quick?” Dallon glanced back at the mirror, at his teeth, noticing it wasn’t just the top, but the bottom canines that were now sharp as well. “The vampires and the magic only kickstarted this shit.”

 

“So…” Ryan was fingering the crystal around his neck, maybe trying to call more butterflies, “What is he?”

 

Kenny scratched the back of his head nervously, “A daemon.”

 

Wh-what?” Dallon leaned forward, letting his voice slip and reverberate, much to Kenny and Ryan’s chagrin.

 

“Man, I don’t know, I’m a medium, not a demonologist, but I know the signs at least-” He halted, “I can prove it-”

 

“I’m not asking you to prove anything!” Dallon said angrily, “I’m asking you to tell me what the fuck I’m-!” He gestured wildly at himself.

 

“I said it already, man!” Kenny yelled back, “You’re a fucking daemon! It’s from your ancestors or whatever, sorry you didn’t know!”

 

“Okay!” Ryan finally stepped in between them, “Shut up! Seriously, I’ve had enough with the screaming in the last two days to last forever! Dallon, this guy-” He jabbed a finger at Kenny, “-He can get us some answers! And you-!” He whirled around to Kenny, “-You’re not making this shit easier you know! This asshole just learned he’s actually a completely different species than he thought he was like twenty-four hours ago! I didn’t even know half this shit existed two weeks ago! I don’t know how I did it but I did real honest-to-god serious magic a few hours ago! Just slow down, I just want to sit and watch Law and Order or something!”

 

Dallon and Kenny exchanged glances filled with an equal amount of confusion, then turned to Ryan, whose face was red with anger and embarrassment.

 

“I mean I can make coffee.” Kenny shrugged.

 

“I wanna watch Law and Order too.” Dallon nodded.

 

“And,” Ryan stared at Kenny, “Tonight, you get us some answers, to everything.”

 

“Definitely.”

 

Dallon realized over the next few hours of being a demon, or ‘daemon’ as Kenny haughtily corrected him, _there’s a difference you newb_ , that he was already used to it.

 

It was terrifying, but the teeth and the voice were already his, he _knew_ what he was doing, and he didn’t like it. He wanted to be confused, and stare at himself in the mirror and wonder why he could still see out of eyes that would technically be considered blind, but he didn’t. He should cry or something.

 

He just didn’t have it in him.

 

A day ago, he was Dallon Weekes.

 

Now he was Dallon Weekes: Teeth Edition.

 

He really hated himself sometimes.

 

Kenny used… so many candles in his apartment.

 

They were on shelves, the floor, the windowsill, the coffee table. All of them loose and free to let wax leak and spread wherever it pleased, and as night fell, he began to light them.

 

“I think this is a fire hazard,” Dallon said through his teeth, which still hurt.

 

“It’s kind of necessary,” Kenny said, lighting another, “Ghosts prefer dramatic lighting when they’re summoned, or else they get really offended.”

 

“Ghosts?” Dallon asked, he was sick of reacting to things.

 

“Uh-huh,” Kenny took the rug out of the room to reveal a neat pentagram drawn on the floor, “I am a medium.” Ryan watched in silence as the rest of the candles were lit and the curtains were drawn as the sun fell below the desert horizon.

 

Then, Kenny sat at the front of the room, framed with an old grandfather clock behind him. “Alright… as the sun leaves and the moon returns… I call to you, whoever listens.” Kenny closed his eyes in concentration and Ryan and Dallon gave each other a look.

 

“Whoever listens, I welcome a good soul with whom I can confide in as a friend, a sister, brother, or teacher…” Kenny popped one eye open, then closed it.

 

“Um…” Ryan looked at the digital clock on the wall.

 

“Night falls!” Kenny spoke over him, “And you can show yourself, as I, as my guests call to you in desperation for answers, for counsel and wise words-” The blinds at the open window shook in a sudden wind.

 

“Recently they have come upon some confusing times,” Kenny looked like he was holding back a smile, “An unwelcome transformation-” Dallon shuffled uncomfortably, “-An unknown source of power… and if you can come forward to put them at ease with your endless knowledge-”

 

The candles flickered and the wind blew hard, Dallon shivered and he could see his breath.

 

“We ask as travelers, as welcoming friends-” Kenny tried to continue, but the grandfather clock behind him rattled and startled, he jumped away in fright. Candles flickered and were put out, and Dallon began to shiver along with Ryan.

 

The wood in the clock groaned and it’s face glowed blue, the candles nearest to it flickered back on, to Dallon’s astonishment. A faint outline hovered above the center of the pentagram, slowly gaining shape and opacity. Kenny remained silent, his mouth hanging open.

 

Pretty soon Dallon could see a uniform, Union Army fatigues covered in ragged holes where shards of glass poked through, spilling ghostly blood down the coat. The head was the last to appear, bloody and pale, the ghosts eyes were wide and unblinking, it’s scruffy hair appearing in tufts underneath its hat. The ghost released a cold breath of air and touched down onto the floor.

 

Kenny stood taller, “Sir-”

 

“Where am I?” The ghost asked, it’s voice echoing from the other end of the tunnel.

 

“Uh,” Kenny faltered, “Sir, you’re in my apartment, in Las Vegas, Nevada.”

 

The ghost blinked, appearing more alive by the second, “Where?” His voice pitched up in confusion, “Never heard of it.”

 

“It’s in the west, sir, way past Missouri, sir, I know it’s been a while-”

 

“And stop callin’ me, sir!” The ghost said, sounding and looking more alive than he probably had in thousands of years, even with a shard of glass sticking out of his forehead, “You standin' up there like some deadbeat! I’m dead as a wagon tire! Getting the best nap I’ve had in ages and you have the nerve to wake me up!”

 

“So…” Kenny was at a loss for words and Dallon really didn’t think it would have helped him to talk anyway.

 

Ryan spoke up instead, “So what’s your name, uh… dude?”

 

The soldier stood straight, “Daniel Pawlovich, my good man, it’s an honor to meet someone who can wield!” Daniel saluted, “Magic is a risky business general, now- OH!” Daniel jumped back, “What the hell! What’s your business bringin’ a Fog Daemon in here?!” He turned to Kenny, “Are you funny in the head? Those things’ll suffocate you!”

 

“Hey!” Dallon frowned, “What are you- Fog Daemon?!”

 

Daniel looked back at him, then came closer, the glass in his stomach shifting and dripping glowing blood onto the floor, “So you’re new huh? Well, beat the Dutch, that something you barely never see, just hatched, his horns ain’t even comin’ in yet.”

 

“Wha-!” Dallon reached up as if he would feel bumps on his forehead, _“Horns!?”_

 

“Uh, excuse me?” Ryan asked, waving at Daniel. “Mr. Pawlovich?”

 

“May I help you?” Daniel asked him.

 

“I actually have a question,” Ryan said, “Uh… Why are vampires attacking daemons? Or uh… humans that could be daemons?”

 

“Psh, I don’t know,” Daniel paced, “Why do those bloodsuckers do anything? I mean they were so annoying during The Battle of Wilson’s-” he halted in his tracks and Kenny spoke up.

 

“Are you getting something?”

 

“There’s a lot goin’ on in my head right now Mr. Harris,” Daniel blinked furiously, “There’s something down… in Texas.”

 

“Something to do with Texas?” Ryan asked, “Something about the vampires and Dallon?”

 

Daniel swayed, then stood stock still, “Demons are never liked that much my man, prejudice and terror… San Antonio might lead you to something… and that boy on the moving pictures…”

 

“What’s in San Antonio?” Dallon asked, “Can it fix me?”

 

Daniel snapped out of his trance, “Well I don’t have all the answers!” He was angry, the candles flickered with his mood, “I was sleeping in my clock, unbothered, and you come into my home-! He stomped his foot and turned away, “You Living Folks think we got everything you need! Well, Mr. Harris, Ross, and Fog Daemon I think i will take my leave!”

 

“No!” Kenny reached forward as if to grab him but his hand went right through Daniel’s shoulder before he was gone, slamming the windows and doors in the apartment.

 

Ryan watched him go in amazement. Then he turned to Kenny and asked: “Do you think Dallon and I could get to San Antonio on half a tank of gas?”

 

* * *

 

 

_“Hey, Breezy… Listen, you said to call you so…_

_I’m calling your apartment, I had to dig this number_

_outta my wallet, I wanted to be nice._

_…_

_Listen, I’m in trouble, It was the fight, I gotta skip_

_town for a while. Breezy I…_

_I really like you a lot, I really do, um, bye._

 

 

  * **_**_Call made from a payphone outside Las Vegas from Dallon Weekes, played back hundreds of times_**_**



 

 

 

_Hundreds of White Pine butterflies exploded from behind Ryan..._

**Author's Note:**

> Tell me what you think!


End file.
